Fire Emblem: Foreboding Horizons
by Aspen FE
Summary: Generations have passed since the end of the Grima War and the Shepherds' campaign against forces that threatened to destroy the world. As heroes of the past die, new ones will always rise to take their place. Based in the same world as Genealogy of the Holy War, Marth's campaigns, Gaiden, and Awakening. Rated M for graphic descriptions of gore.
1. Book One: Foreboding Horizons

**– – –**

* * *

**Book One**

Foreboding Horizons

* * *

Generations have passed since the end of the Grima War and the Shepherds' campaign against forces that threatened to destroy the world. As heroes of the past die, new ones will always rise to take their place.

New threats have risen from within a divided Regna Ferox and a sealed Ylisse. The Sons of Naga have launched their campaign against the living Fellblood, descendants of both the main and alternate reality versions of Robin. Meanwhile, East Regna Ferox terrorizes the West, attempting to force them into submission.

And despite the ever-present threats to the world, a dark current shifts about underneath the earth...


	2. Exordium: Awakening

"_...Following the demise of Grima,"_ the worn pages of the _Awakening_ novel read, "_the heroes of Ylisse searched for their fallen brother and tactician. Some treaded through the recently conquered fields of Valm, and others searched through the snow capped peaks of Regna Ferox. Only two, however, would travel to the familiar lands of Southtown. In all poetic nature, the Hero-Tactician Robin was rediscovered in the very same field he entered the world in, by the same people._

"_Now returned to the world of the living by miracle alone, Robin was offered kingship of the lands of Plegia, his homeland, after the death of King Validar. The tactician, however, refused; living out the rest of his days in service of Ylisse._

"_The amnesiac hero that led the world into a brighter future passed away in the year of 973, but not before leaving his mark on the world through his many brilliant texts of tactics that are now considered standard in any royal army across the globe. Many accounts of history are unable to adequately recount his many tales, what he looked like, or his personality, but we as historians do know that he loved his friends, family, comrades, and wife above all else._

"_For further reading on Robin of Ylisse, reading _A Treatise of Tactics _and _Advanced Military Coordination _is highly recommended._

"_**Chapter 3: Princess Lissa**_

"_Princess Lissa, Exalt Chrom's sprightly cleric sister, is an interesting character indeed…"_

The black-coated man laid the book, yet unfinished, upon his desk next to the two tactical readings _Awakening_ referred to. He leaned back in his chair.

"The world was so different then. How can we not find the same comfort of peace that these people did, despite death itself hanging over them? Ferox is divided, Ylisse's contact with the world outside itself is unheard of, and Plegia only has contact with _Valm_, of all places."

He pushed the thought from his mind. After all, he still had time to get in more training before the night set in. His thoughts could afford to rest for the time being. The man grabbed his gray, twisted blade off of its place on his wall. With a flick of his wrist, magical electricity began to dance across the edge of the ashen blade.

Spellbook and sword in hand, he set out into the desert, his open hierophant cloak trailing behind him.

* * *

Cannonfire and ballistae shots rang out into the dead of night. Fires roared and burned, tainting the night sky a bloodied mixture of crimson and twilight. Nearby, a ballista bolt tore through the hardy Feroxian stone walls surrounding the town as if they were no more than paper.

The brown-haired man slid and ducked behind a fallen stone pillar and hoisted his family's axe onto his shoulder. His red cloak was in tatters, and blackened from the burnt debris of the town. His light, leather armor was torn, revealing a bloody gash at his side, and his face was covered with the ashes of the blazing inferno.

"These Easterners just don't give up, do they?" He muttered, surveying the area. The familiar buildings lining the streets that he had known only yesterday had become foreign and hellish. The polished stone walls were marred with the ashes of warfare, and others had been torn down by the endless rain of ballistae-fire from outside the walls.

"Colin," a voice rang out, approaching from the direction he had come from, "I've found an exit." His older sister, Carolyn, had caught up with him. She was similarly worn down, her light chain armor was burned in several places and weathered from flying debris. Her once blue eyes appeared gray in the light of the town's fires, her similarly brown hair blackened from the ash in the air.

As Carolyn settled down beside her brother, she pointed. "Past that ballista bolt, in the alleyway. There's a segment of the wall been destroyed and no Eastern soldiers are around. We can sneak out that way."

"We can't leave yet. Not without Muiris." Colin's grip around his axe tightened. "As much as I hate admitting it, we need him if we're going to survive out there."

Carolyn sighed. "I don't know where the damn fool's gone off to. He was with me after we led some of the villagers to safety, but…" she trailed off.

"He wouldn't have run off on his own, right?" Colin sighed, uncertainly. "He's reckless, but not that stupid. He's around here somewhere."

A new voice materialized in the din of the siege.

"Careful what you say, brother. You never know where people will be listening." Muiris appeared beside the siblings. Colin's twin shared many features with him, yet carried a head of white hair in stark contrast to Colin's dark brown. The siege's destruction had not been kind to the mage either; the tips of his pale hair were burnt by the growing fires and his mage robes were as worn down as Colin's armor. In his left hand he carried a cheap, basic Elthunder tome. On Muiris' other side, his undeveloped right arm lay uselessly.

"I'm not leaving this damned place without taking down a few Easterners. Show 'em some Feroxian justice for busting up our town like this." Muiris winced as a stray cannonball crashed into the desolate street cobblestones, launching pieces of stone into the air. "See that? That's exactly what I'm talking about."

"Muiris, we can't. We need to focus on our escape first. We'll get another strike at them once we've roused some forces at Arena Ferox," Colin asserted. "I know some skilled women and men there who are ready to fight." Colin ducked as a ballista round crashed through a nearby building, which began to collapse. "Carolyn's found a way out. We need to go!"

"Sure, you would be the one to say that. The one chosen by Father to hold our family axe. You don't even know the first thing about how we do business here, and he chooses? What would mother say, had she still been alive?"

Colin winced as his mother was brought into question. He began to retort, but Carolyn pushed him out of the way and stood frighteningly close to the mage.

"Can it, Muiris!" Carolyn shouted, slamming the pole of her lance on the ground. Her two brothers stood silent. "Put your damn honor beside you for one day! If you haven't noticed, the fires aren't getting any smaller," She relaxed a little, returning her grip on her weapon to a more neutral stance. "Colin and I are leaving. Feel free to join if you'd like."

Muiris turned from his sister, shocked at her drastic change in personality. Electricity danced across his fingertips as he let an Elthunder fly, vaporizing an incoming ballista bolt.

Scowling, he grumbled, "Alright, fine. Let's get going."

– – –

Dodging cannonfire and the flames that consumed the town, the trio made their way towards the alleyway. Surprisingly, the surrounding buildings had kept most of their structural integrity, and had not yet been subject to the spreading fires. Down the dark passage, only the starlight from the other side of the threshold revealed that the town wall had been downed in that area. Colin ducked into a forgotten market stall.

"You two, grab as much food as you can from inside. I'll scout the outside area for any Easterners." Carolyn nodded at her younger brother, while Muiris held his head low. Colin rushed down the alleyway towards the open horizon of starlight.

Carolyn slammed the base of her lance into the door, knocking it off of its hinges. She and her brother stepped over the splintered wooden pieces.

"The nerve of that imbecile, making us deliver food to him instead of fighting!" Muiris clipped his tome to his belt to free his good arm. "Once I find one of those damn Easteners, I'll—"

"Hush, brother," Carolyn interrupted, filling her bag with some fruit that had been thrown to the floor by the shockwaves of cannonfire. "He's only doing what he knows is right. If you bothered to spend some time with him now and again, you might know that."

Muiris didn't respond. He filled his own bag with some produce resting comfortably in the stall, unaffected by the chaos outside.

"If he would show a little spine every now and again, like Father, I think I might stand him. Hell, even I'm more of a Feroxian then he is, and I fight with magic."

Muiris glanced over to Carolyn, who had stopped filling her bag and had turned her head up to the ceiling.

"You alright, sister?"

Carolyn held her hand up to silence him. "Listen, do you hear that? A whistling…"

– – –

Colin broke out into a run. The alleyway was quite long, running through two blocks of town before meeting with the now-demolished outer wall. As he crossed through the threshold into the open air, his heart dropped.

Stormguard stood upon a steep hill, granting an enviable view of the surrounding lowlands. Thousands of Eastern ballistae stood, poised for fire, among an innumerable amount of cannons and burning pitch throwers. The Eastern soldiers hardly had to move as they cut down the fleeing or retaliating civilians.

Colin knew that Eastern Ferox held the lion's share of military power, but he had never imagined as stark a contrast as this. He shook the thought from his head. He had to find a safe path out of the city.

He turned his attention to the hillside. Fortunately, the Eastern soldiers hadn't completely surrounded the town. Most of their forces had probably moved to cut off the escape of Stormguard citizens. The alleyway was fortunately positioned near the normally sealed Western side of the town, leaving an exit between the northern and southern strike teams. From there, they could escape through the frozen taigas between the lowlands and Arena Ferox.

As Colin moved back towards the revealed alleyway entrance, he stopped. Turning his head towards the sky, he heard a low whistling sound. As he waited, the sound grew until a dreadful sight appeared out of the dense smoke above the town. A giant bolt from an eastern-positioned ballista cut through the smoke and impaled itself through a merchant's building. A haunting creaking sound signaled the building's imminent collapse.

"No," Colin gasped, paralyzed to the spot, "Carolyn and Muiris and are still in there!"

Colin sprinted down the first block of alleyway, desperate to not separate himself from his brother and sister. As he passed through into the second block, he noticed that the building had begun to collapse far faster than he had anticipated. Stone bricks rained down the alleyway, threatening to crush any unfortunate enough to stand beneath them. Halfway through the second block, two larger bricks still connected by mortar fell directly in front of Colin, sending him crashing to the ground.

Colin turned onto his back, only to watch in horror as even more tumbled down from above. Raising his axehead into a defensive position, he attempted to block the incoming projectiles from crushing him. Another brick shattered his right arm, forcing him to drop his axe. Colin cried out in pain, helplessly, as the building continued to collapse. Brick after brick flooded the alleyway.

Colin's vision began to fade.

* * *

The sudden ballista shot tore through the upper story of the building, knocking the two siblings to the floor.

"The whole thing's coming down!" Carolyn cried, rising to her feet and grabbing her brother. The two leaped through the building's doorway as the entire second floor forcefully dropped where the two were standing moments ago.

The two siblings coughed and sputtered as the dirt and dust settled from the building's sudden collapse.

Muiris picked himself off the ground, his throat still coated with dust.

"Thanks for the save," he coughed. Muiris turned his attention to the entrance of the alleyway. "I figure we've gotten enough from that shop. Let's go meet up with Colin."

His sister hoisted herself to a standing position with the help of her spear.

"Right. Let's move."

Carolyn ran ahead, yet stopped at the entrance to the alleyway, dropping her spear.

"Carolyn," he called, confused, "What's the—"

The two stood, mortified. Where an open path once lay was now filled with the stone bricks of the very same merchant building.

"Colin…" Carolyn trailed off. "He's on the other side of that wall. We need to get over there before the Easterners tear him apart!"

"Carolyn, it's alright," her brother responded. If he hasn't gotten back from spending that long on the other side of the wall he's probably found a way out. We'll meet with him at Arena Ferox, as planned."

"But—"

"We can worry about him later! What's important right now is finding another way out. We're doing him no good if we can't even get out of the city before we burn to death."

"Y-you're right." Carolyn picked her spear off of the ground. "Let's have a look around."

* * *

The Feroxian East Khan stood atop the remains of a collapsed market building, surveying the area around him. Hooves trotting upon the ground signaled his commander's approach.

"Khan Aniam," the slim, mounted man saluted, "The area has been secured. As far as I can tell, no one inside Stormguard has survived."

Despite being slim, Lambert managed to keep a somewhat muscular build. His brown hair was styled just so at the sides of his face that his emotionless gray eyes were hidden from view.

"But what of the man?" Aniam responded, frustrated. "Do any of the corpses match the person I ordered you to collect, Lambert?"

Lambert sighed, yet his expression remained neutral.

"Not one, sir. Most of the corpses have been badly burned or crushed, so they have been difficult to identify. Damn Western dogs deserve it, though." Lambert paused, lightly kicking an upturned piece of cobblestone. He continued, "Oh, and the axe you mentioned during the war council hasn't been recovered by our men either."

Aniam stroked his lightly bearded chin, attempting to keep his anger under control in the presence of his soldier.

"...As I expected. He probably up and left at the first sign of trouble on the horizon." The Khan cleared his throat. "Rally the forces. We march on to Arena Ferox. Once we control the Arena, the rest of these Western holdouts will crumble. And we will see Liam avenged, on my word. I'll give you the honor of slaying the Western general that killed him yourself."

Lambert was taken off guard by his father's name. He looked down at his leather armor, lightly grasping the shoulderstrap that connected to his belt. Failing to compose himself, he stuttered, "A-as you command, sir. I will meet with General Ilias to draft our plan of attack and confer with you at camp." The commander saluted once again, and departed upon his steed.

After the mounted soldier was well out of sight, the East Khan cursed, driving his greatsword into the remains of the building.

"You can't hide forever, Colin! This world isn't small enough to hide the cowardice of your kind." The echoes of his anger carried far and away onto the midwinter lowlands.

* * *

A cold, sudden chill blew through the boughs of the midmorning Feroxian forest. A convoy of four well-traveled men trecked through the snow-covered forest path leading to the Homely Hearth inn, a popular spot to those not used to the bite of Feroxian midwinter.

Two of the men rode upon a powerful white mare clad in brilliant gilded armor. The one controlling the horse's reins wore a set of equally brilliant gilded armor with red trim, his clean shaven, brown-haired face unobstructed by any type of helmet. His passenger was a taguel, whose short, white-furred ears blew lazily in the wind. Despite his lack of upper body clothing, the musclebound, blue-eyed taguel didn't yield so much as a shiver.

The two men walking alongside the horse both wore sets of robes, one black and one white. The white-robed man stroked his fiery-red beard as he strayed closer to the armored horse in an attempt to warm himself, while the black-robed man adjusted the thin, wire glasses on his face before a smile began to play across his face.

"Ah, this brings back good memories of my time on the road!" The black-garbed man stretched his hands above his head, his white-flecked black hair shifting in the breeze. "Maybe if you all are lucky, I'll tell you about that time my caravan went up to Arena Ferox. Those Feroxians are some crazy people when they're drunk, I'll tell you!"

"Didn't you tell us about that one last night?" the man in white questioned.

"No, Samuel, that one was about when we traveled to Port Ferox and ran into that band of dancers. They even had a _man_ dancing with them. What a sight!"

Samuel scratched his red beard, smiling, thinking back to the previous night by the campfire.

"Yeah, that's right. You'll have to save that story for another time then, Brooks, because we're here."

The party approached the tavern, a rowdy din audible from even outside.

"You sure we're headed the right way, Lester?" The taguel asked, dismounting from the paladin's armored horse. "Not even Brooks has been up here before."

"I do believe so, Desmond," Lester replied, dismounting as well. As he tied up his horse on the inn's hitching post, he turned to the two robed men that had been walking beside his mount. "Samuel, Brooks, head on inside and ask the bartender for directions. If I recall from the journeys out here in my youth, Stormguard is only a few miles north of here."

"Alright, old man," Brooks replied. "I'll make sure he has some warm biscuits ready for you when you finally get inside."

"Brooks, please," the paladin buried his face in his hand. "We're the same age."

"Come on, Brooks," the white-robed priest interjected. "We're wasting daylight. Let's go find that innkeeper."

"You want some biscuits too, Sammy? Because I could _really_ go for some right now."

"Only if you do the talking. And please, don't call me that."

The two entered the inn, their playful ranting joining the chorus of merry inn goers. As Lester paid the man in charge of the mount hitching service, Desmond opened his pack. Inside, a purple, glowing gem with swirling, black tendrils beneath its exterior rested. He hoisted the stone into his hands. For something so powerful, it was surprisingly light. Desmond held the piece of his taguel ancestry in his hands, wondering.

"Still dwelling on your Beaststone, Desmond?" Lester called from his left.

Surprised, the taguel quickly stashed the gem, raising an audible crack from one of his vulnerary vials.

"No!" Desmond shouted. Seeing Lester visibly surprised from his sudden outburst, he took a deep breath, and calmed himself. "I mean, no. Just looking at it."

"You mustn't worry yourself, friend," the paladin responded, watching as Desmond stroked his ears, nervously. "Where is your usual upbeat personality?"

Lester paused, watching a pair of birds fly about the snow-topped forest canopy.

"Let's get inside. We're going to need your axe hand rested the further we get into Feroxian territory. If there's one thing I remember from my occasional journeys up here, it's that the Feroxians become more ruthless the further north we travel."

"Probably because of the cold," Desmond said, smirking. "If I was stuck up here I'd probably be an angry berserker too."

Lester smiled, a rare sight indeed for the stoic paladin. "There he is. Welcome back, Desmond. Now, let's go see what Samuel and Brooks have learned over a plate of biscuits. I do believe Brooks said he was buying?"

The taguel laughed, and closed his pack. He and the taller paladin entered the inn, closing the door behind them.

* * *

**Fire Emblem: Foreboding Horizons**

**A Fire Emblem Fanfiction**

**Written by Aspen_FE**


	3. Prologue: Two-Sided Coin

**Arc One: Of Regnas and Halidoms**

* * *

The black-coated man stood, shaking off lingering feelings of unconsciousness. He put a hand to his temple to stifle the glaring pain still radiating from there.

_"Blood."_

He looked around the area, and visible destruction of a battle was all too apparent. Arrows, abandoned swords, and bodies littered the forest floor. Suddenly, the reality of the situation hit him, and his heart fell to his stomach.

_"My men!"_

The black-coated man took off, desperate to find the unit he was in command of. But the bodies looked all to similar to him. Each was coated in blood, armor tattered, sometimes with body parts severed. Unrecognizable.

The man fell to his knees. He knew this was his fault. He led these mercenaries into battle.

He turned his head. A low groaning rose up out of a pile of corpses.

_"Could it be…?"_

He limped over to the sound. Leaning down, he immediately recognized the woman's body. Dark brown hair and soft, tanned skin, similar to his own yielded her identity. She bore a fresh sword wound across her eyes, and an arrow was buried near her collarbone. Unlike the man's signature hierophant cloak, she wore a set of ebony chain armor, marred by the battle, and carried a regal lance typical of dark riders. Her mount was nowhere to be seen.

The black-coated man turned her over onto her back, and rested her head on his knees.

"Marisa!" he cried out, desperate for her to be okay. "Please, speak to me!"

"Ni—how… how could you? You… you…" she coughed, her whole body spasming. "Y-you led us into this…"

"No, sister, please! I never meant—"

Marisa gasped for air. The man knew that her time was short.

"I-it's all because you wouldn't… wouldn't issue the retreat… order," she spoke, weakly. "You… you…"

She violently spasmed again, unable to breathe. She reached her hand into the air, as if to grasp some invisible object above her. Yet, the hand weakened, and eventually fell to the ground beside her.

She was dead. Undeniably dead.

The scene around the coated man dissolved into another immediately after Marisa's final breath left her body. His wounds were healed, and his tattered coat had been mended. The forest was now but a distant memory, and Marisa was nowhere to be seen.

The forest soon melted away into an pitch-black abyss. The black-coated man was lifted from the ground, forced to float immobily in the air. Another scenes quickly flashed in front of his eyes: a desert town with broken walls. The coated man remembered the place. Another source of failure and shame.

The new scene faded away, replacing itself with the void of darkness once again. All was quiet. The coated man forced himself to look around, but his neck wouldn't cooperate with his mind's commands. Wherever he was, he was at the mercy of his environment.

"Hello, old friend," a voice rang out suddenly, startling the coated man, "I'm back."

The man knew exactly who the voice belonged to. He tried desperately to respond, to tell the malicious entity off, but his voice refused to produce so much as a whisper.

More voices soon joined in. They taunted, they jeered, but nothing they said made any sense. The sensation wasn't alien to the coated man, as he had lived his last few years in their presence almost every day. When they ebbed the first time, he had assumed that they would have stayed away for good.

But they were back. There was no doubt about that.

Without warning, the voices silenced themselves conurrently. The abyss of darkness materialized once again into the familiar Ylissean forest setting. He held his sister's head in his lap.

Marisa, still very much dead, floated off the ground into a standing position in front of the him. She glared at him, the gash across her eyes still dripping with blood.

"I will have my revenge."

* * *

The coated man woke with a start, breathing heavily, sweat dripping from his sleep-disarranged dark brown hair. Reaching for his spellbook, he conjured up a weak spark of fire on his fingertips, lighting his bedside candle. The crimson glow illuminated the walls of his library home.

It took a minute for the man to become readjusted to his surroundings. He was in his bed, in his room, the very same place he had gone to sleep after training in the desert the previous evening. Outside the window, it appeared to be around midnight.

The man was all too familiar with his recurring dream, living out the nightmare that took the lives of his mercenaries and the only other family he had to his name. Her sister vowing revenge was new, however.

And those voices returning…

"_Why did they appear tonight? I… I don't understand… I thought they were still dormant…"_

He sighed. Going to sleep would be an impossibility after a nightmare like that. Rising from the bed, he removed the candle from its place on his bedside table.

"_Perhaps I'll read some more from _Awakening. _If Princess Lissa is as unique as she sounds…"_

Grabbing his coat from the wall hanger, the man descended the spiral stairs towards his study.

The Plegian desert, while sweltering during the day, can become unbearably frigid during the night hours; only becoming far more deadly in the winter seasons. The walls of the man's library tower were fortunately able to retain the day hours' heat, yet this still did not halt the freeze from outside from forcing its way into the home. A chill running down his spine, the man descended the last of the steps into the parlor.

The man pulled his chair from in front of the desk, and lowered himself into the leatherbound seat. He gazed at the globe, candle, and piles of books and scrolls before reaching for the copy of _Awakening_ still resting where he had placed it in the evening. However, he paused. The man sorrowfully looked down at his black coat, highlighted in yellow, and etched in purple symbols of Grima.

"_Mother,"_ he thought, "_This coat has given me nothing but an unbearable responsibility. It is stained in the blood of my sister, my men. Yet you wore it, your mother wore it, and her mother wore it, it goes two generations before that, too."_

"_But why?" _he retorted, to himself.

"_Because a great tactician has worn it too."_

"_How much blood has she herself sullied it with?"_

"_None," _his inner monologue continued. "_Every Shepherd lived. But that wasn't her doing, was it?"_

"_Regardless, you've—_I've _done nothing more than tarnish its name."_

He pushed the copy of _Awakening_ to the very back edge of his desk, then held his head between his hands.

"_What good is a tactician that sends his troops to death?"_

The man rose, his eyes turning towards the threshold of the door, where his weapon rested on its wall hanger. He removed it, and sent an all-too familiar jolt of electricity through it.

"_But this sword… this sword has belonged to no one but me."_

The Ashen Levin Sword, dubbed Ashen, was the magical instrument the man himself crafted under the watchful eye of his father. While he used his knowledge of the sword to craft the weapon itself, his mother added the ability to channel lightning magic through it. With the wicked edge of steel, and the danger of electricity, it was a powerful weapon indeed.

"_Can I… can I fix my mistakes? Will this sword help me forge a destiny of my own? Is there any way to put my mistakes to rest?"_

With no answer retorting his statement, he placed the weapon back on its wall hanger, the electrical magic flowing through it coming to rest.

"I suppose I'll just have to wait and see."

* * *

"Stormguard… has fallen?" a surprised Lester gaped, dropping the biscuit he was eating. "T-that is simply not possible! They had the best defenses of any in West Ferox!"

"Believe me, I'm as surprised as you are," Brooks replied, staring down into his lap. The tales I've heard of that town are, well, astounding to say the least."

"The innkeeper is no liar, though," Samuel continued. "The inn's been getting refugees from the town ever since the middle of last night."

"But where are they? Are they still here?" Desmond asked, placing his palms onto the table and standing up. "The people in here seem like regular tavern goers."

The taguel gestured towards the commons of the inn. He was right, most of the people looked like anyone else in a tavern would: dunk, jolly, and with companions. None looked as if they had just weathered a siege.

Samuel turned towards Desmond. "Well, the innkeeper said that most of the refugees wanted to be comforted by their neighbors, so they're holed up in the cellar. I wouldn't go and disturb them, though."

"But we need to figure out if it is still worth the effort to trek up there," Desmond retorted, sitting back down. "We have a job to do. Or, had, I guess."

"Right," Lester interjected. "We were to travel to Stormguard, rally those willing to fight, and continue towards Arena Ferox in preparation for an inevitable invasion. Exalt Spes knew that the East would eventually assault the West, heavily at that, but not this soon."

"Exactly!" Desmond replied, turning towards the paladin, "That's why we need to get to Arena Ferox as soon as possible. The East is probably already on their way as we speak!"

Lester held his hands to silence the agitated taguel.

"Relax, friend. We're still going to Arena Ferox. I just want to check Stormguard for any possible survivors before we move out. Especially one."

"Oh?" Brooks glanced Lester, interest piqued. "Who might this be?"

"No one but an old childhood acquaintance. We talked occasionally when I was in Stormguard on expeditions for my knighthood training. If he's as foolhardy and stubborn as I remember, he might still be there."

As the conversation continued, Samuel surveyed the inn. The scene had hardly changed since Desmond last pointed it out. It was still boisterous, and many were drinking away the morning.

"_Not all too rare of the Ferox, I suppose," _he thought.

The clanging of plates and glasses turned his attention away from the inn's commons. A robed man, with a white head of hair, had gotten up from his table to the immediate left of the booth the troupe of four had been occupying. He turned towards them, hesitantly, and approached them.

"You all..." the man began, placing his left hand on the table's surface. Desmond and Lester's conversation ceased, turning their attention towards the stranger.

"Are you all talking about what happened in Stormguard?" he paused, only continuing after the group had nodded in confirmation.

"I think I might be able to help."

"And you are, sir?" Lester asked.

"The name's Muiris," the stranger replied, sitting on Brooks and Samuel's side of the table, next to Samuel.

Muiris was definitely Feroxian, yet wore a set of traditional black mage robes which showed definite wear from the fall of Stormguard. His gray eyes seemed distant, even tormented, among his newly scarred face. Specks of ash dotted his white hair like pepper in a bowl of salt. The man obviously hadn't slept or bathed since he left the doomed town.

Lester studied the man curiously.

"Have we… have we met before?" he asked.

"No, I'm afraid not, sir. Never seen the likes of you around these parts before."

Muiris paused, staring at the tabletop blankly before continuing his thought.

"And if I were you all, I wouldn't continue through here if I was paid a million gold for it. The place reeks of the East."

"Not to interrupt or anything, Muiris," Desmond said, "But you said you knew of what happened in Stormguard? Tell us everything you know."

"Hmm… oh yes, right." Muiris seemed like he had forgotten his initial reason of joining the party of four to begin with.

"All right, you lot. Let me start from the beginning."

* * *

_My sister Carolyn and I were citizens of Stormguard. We grew up there, together. It was quite a nice life. My father fought in the West Feroxian guard, before the two nations divided. My mother was always there for the two of us. We had quite a happy life, even after Father died in a border skirmish with Ylisse and mother from sickness._

_That is, until the East came last night. They hit us by surprise, before the guardsman even knew that they were upon us. Before we knew it, burning pitch, ballista bolts, cannonballs, absolutely everything was raining down from the sky. It was a living nightmare. I didn't believe that it was real, even, until the shock of a cannonball tearing through the town street knocked me over._

_My sister and I worked to escort most of the citizens out of the city. Most of them made it, too. They're in the cellar. Anyway, she and I got separated after getting some of the kids out. I eventually ran into her when she was looking for a way out. She said she found an alleyway with a hole torn through it, it was to be a perfect escape towards Arena Ferox._

_As we searched the merchant building next door for food, though, the unthinkable happened. A sudden ballista shot tore through the upper story of the merchant building we were in, knocking us both to the floor._

_"The whole thing's coming down!" Carolyn cried, rising to her feet and grabbing me from the dazed position I was in. We leaped through the building's doorway as the entire second floor collapsed onto where we were standing seconds ago._

_We coughed and sputtered as the dirt and dust settled from the building's sudden collapse. The fires had caught up to the section we were in, and the smoke from that mess didn't help much either_

_I picked myself off the ground, my throat still coated with dust._

_"Thanks for the save," I coughed. I then turned my attention to the entrance of the alleyway. "I figure we've gotten enough from that shop. Let's get to the exit."_

_My sister hoisted herself to a standing position with the help of her spear._

_"Right. Let's move."_

_Carolyn ran ahead, yet stopped at the entrance to the alleyway, dropping her spear._

_"Carolyn," I called, confused. I didn't understand why she would stop in front of the alleyway. "What's the—"_

_We stood, mortified. Where the exit once was was now blocked off by the wreckage of that building!_

_"Our exit..." Carolyn trailed off. "It's on the other side of that wall. We need to get over there before the Easterners find us and tear us apart!"_

_"Carolyn, it's alright," I responded, comfortingly. We can find another way out. We need to get to Arena Ferox to get some backup, and quickly!"_

_"But—"_

_"We can worry about that later! What's important right now is finding another way out. We're doing no good if we can't even get out of the city before we burn to death."_

_"Y-you're right." Carolyn picked her spear off of the ground. "Let's have a look around."_

_As we ran through the desolate streets of Stormguard, Carolyn spoke up again._

_"We can't use the main entrances of the town, for sure. The East probably has those blocked off, ready to kill any who come through. We're going to either have to try our luck for another hole like we found earlier or hope that we can survive in this blaze."_

_As we ran, we looked down the alleyways like the one that we found before, with the hole at the end. None spared us any more holes, though. Carolyn started to think that we were going to have to stay the night in that hellhole. Just then, I had an idea._

_"Carolyn," I said, stopping in front of yet another dead-ended alley, "I think I know how to get us out of here. You're going to have to trust me."_

_She was confused, obviously, but followed me as I ran towards the back of the alley._

_"We should be on the western wall of town. If we're lucky, the Easterners wouldn't be smart enough to completely surround us. I think if I put most of my energy into an Arcfire spell, I can bust open this wall."_

_Of course, she was skeptical because of my incomplete training._

_"Muiris, you haven't even learned how to use any Arc-level magic yet. You could hurt yourself, or worse!"_

_"I know that! But we don't have any choice."_

_She sighed. She was such a good sister, always trying to look out for me, because of my bum arm. She eventually stepped back and let my try my spell._

_For having never used any Arc-spells before, and my more natural affinity with lightning, charging up a bunch of fire like that was pretty challenging. Once the spell was strong enough, I let it rip onto that wall. Fortunately, it worked, but the kickback from the spell was pretty powerful since I'm not entirely sure how to contain that much magical energy yet._

_I must have gotten knocked out from the impact. After I came to, I turned, looking desperately for my sister. The explosion from the Arcfire must have caused the charred buildings to collapse while I was out, though, because the the alleyway's entrance was nowhere to be seen. I pressed my head against the wreckage, desperately, and cried out to her._

_"Carolyn! Carolyn, are you alright?"_

_It took a little bit afterwards for her to respond. I can only imagine she was in the same situation I was—knocked out from the blast._

_"I… I'm fine. You have to escape, Muiris! Find other refugees and get them to Arena Ferox! I'll see you on the other side!"_

– – –

"...and that's all I've got. The Eastern forces fortunately didn't have the west wall surrounded, so I was able to escape towards the forest. After aimlessly walking for a time, I found this place like a lot of the others did. I only came up from the cellar a few minutes ago for some ale and a meal. Haven't been able to sleep all night, either."

The four had listened to Muiris' tale quietly, respectfully. After a long pause, Lester spoke up.

"...I see. I cannot even begin to imagine the pain you've been through today, sir. I have but a few more questions before you go. Might you know the damage done to Stormguard? How much did the Easterners destroy?"

"Based on the two buildings I felled and the one that the ballista knocked over, I'd assume that the whole place has fallen," the mage replied, sadly. "They have plenty of ballistae, cannons, pitch throwers, the whole lot of siege weapons, to go around. A lot more than anyone ever said they had."

"Could they have gotten extra from an ally? Do they actively trade weapons of war with anyone?"

"Couldn't say, friend."

Lester paused, racking his mind for anything else he could ask the stranger.

"This might sound quite… odd, or personal, but do you happen to have a brother? Any other siblings besides your sister."

The man was quiet for a time, looking down at the tabletop with the same blank, hollow expression from before.

"…No. Can't say I do."

Lester scratched his chin in thought for a moment.

"Hmm, I suppose it must simply be a coincidence, then. Anyway, it was an honor meeting you, Muiris." Lester reached out across the table and firmly shook his good hand. "I do hope you reunite with your sister. We will do everything we can to rally forces at Arena Ferox to fight back."

"Thank you, paladin." As Muiris got up from his spot on the bench, he turned and faced the group again. "Oh, if you happen to run into my sister… a little taller than me, light brown hair, hazel-colored eyes, wearing a suit of blue chain armor, carrying a spear… tell her where I am. I'll probably be here a while longer, yet."

"You have my word," Lester replied. With that, the mysterious one-armed mage turned from the table and disappeared around a corner, heading to the cellar.

The table was quiet for some time. None knew how to process the story that the mage had dropped on them. Samuel, however, broke the silence.

"What do we do now? Help me think this through."

"I say we continue to Stormguard as planned," Lester spoke quietly, "If there is a chance at finding that man's sister, I say we take it."

"The only problem with that is she has most likely been captured or killed," Samuel responded, his slightly stern expression shifting to one of sadness.

"_Most likely_, yes, but there is still a chance!" Desmond hopped off of the booth's bench and stood in front of the table. "I'm with Lester. I say we go. Brooks?"

"Might as well," the mage responded. "Your taguel intuition hasn't led me wrong yet!"

"I suppose it's settled, then," Samuel smiled weakly, a rare departure from the priest's stern resting face. "Let's get going and make the most out of this daylight."

* * *

A loud rapping at the black-coated man's doorstep roused him from his desk. The man pushed himself off of the table and refamiliarized himself with his surroundings. His copy of_Awakening_ lay open where his face was resting.

"_I must've dozed off while reading this damn thing,"_ he thought, laughing slightly at the small pool of drool that had formed in between the two open pages. Grabbing a handkerchief from the inside of his coat's pocket, he mopped up the saliva before it could damage the pages further.

The rapping became more urgent, and returned the man to reality. Closing the red-leather book and rising from the chair that had become his place of sleep the previous night, he trudged sleepily towards the door. Opening it greeted him with the presence of five people with various types of armor, their weapons sheathed. The tall, short-haired, dark skinned man wearing dark chainmail at the front of the group spoke first.

"'Morning, sir. We're a traveling group of fighters, and we've been out in the desert all last night. Our food rations have run out. Do you mind sharing?"

The black-coated man blinked, marveling at the slight ridiculousness of the situation before processing what the group needed. He cleared his throat.

"Of course. Please, come inside."

The band of travelers entered, their eyes glancing around the building's tall ceilings, all lined with books. The library was still dimly lit with the candles the man had lit earlier in the morning after his nightmare, providing a slightly gloomy atmosphere in comparison with the bright desert outside.

"...Nice place," the dual sword-wielding man muttered quietly, spending a noticeably longer time nervously inspecting Ashen, affixed to its place on the entrance hallway wall.

"Glad to finally be out of that damned heat," the black armored, wolf skull-wearing man said quietly to himself, dusting off some sand from his armor.

The coated man led the travelers through a door, separating the library and study from the building's small kitchen.

"It's not every day that a group of people survive the desert's winter nights," the coated man spoke, opening his spellbook to light a small fire underneath an iron kettle. "Some unfortunate travelers have literally frozen out there coming ashore from shipwrecks. Not the prettiest sight."

"It was cold, I'll give you that," the heavily armored woman scoffed, taking a spot at the table, "But nothing a few well traveled heroes couldn't handle."

The coated man reached for some tea leaves resting in an opened cabinet.

"What brings you all to the desert? Looking for haven from the wars?" The man placed the leaves in the kettle, a delightful smell wafting up from the opening in the iron container.

"No, just passing through," the armored woman replied, laying her spear against the wall near the window on the other side of the room. "Someone on the outskirts of Plegia sent for us a few weeks ago. Something's stirring over there."

"Someone called for you all specifically? You must be a pretty famous group of mercenaries, then."

"Not mercenaries, no. We're justiciars! The Justice Brigade!" the dark skin man pounded the center of his chest with one first proudly. "I'm Matthew, but folks usually call me Matt. The armored Valmese lady at the table is Valkus, the pretty albino woman over there is Chastity," he gestured over to the woman, dressed in purple Falcon Knight vestments, who was searching through the cupboards. She turned with a wave.

"The guy with the wolf skull on his shoulder is Marius, and the swordsman glaring at you is Hunter."

The coated man turned as Matt pointed towards Hunter. Not resting his glare the swordsman spat,

"Of course we had to walk into the den of a _mage_ of all people."

The black-robed swordsman rested his hands on the hilt of his weapon. He was a lithe, muscular man, who had obviously seen the cruel realities of the battlefield. His short, brown hair did little to hide his angered expression in his eyes as he began to draw his swords.

"Now, be _thankful_, Hunter," the albino woman named Chastity said, resting a hand on Hunter's shoulder. "This man is the only person around here who has an open door! Show a little respect!"

She had moved from the cupboard, where she had set ingredients upon the kitchen's counter. Despite Chast not being a very imposing person, standing half a head shorter than the angered swordsman, and having very little muscle to show, her red eyes were quite unnerving. Her white hair was pulled neatly into a fox-tail style, in contrast to her stark eyes.

Hunter released the hilts of his swords, frustration still visible on the swordsman's face.

"Fine. As long as _only_ you touch the food, Chast. I still don't trust him."

"Is that alright with you… erm… hmm, we must have missed your name, sir. And you are?"

"Nila," the black-coated man replied. "Sorry, I must've not mentioned that earlier. I'm not treated to travelers often out here. And no, that's perfectly alright."

– – –

Not but an hour later, Chastity—or Chast, as Nila quickly learned that she preferred to be called that—had transformed the once paltry cupboard into a breakfast the likes of which Nila had never seen before. She had somehow baked several loaves of bread, rolls, and sweet pastries with the sparse amount of food Nila had bought days before. Marius had also left, returning with a massive sea salmon that he had caught in the nearby ocean. Chast was able to fillet the massive fish excellently into several delicious steaks.

"You're going to have tell me how you managed to do this, Chast," Nila laughed, smiling, "I usually manage to screw up hardtack."

"Well, you pick up a lot when you're traveling with three people who can't tell a knife from a spoon and one who is afraid of fire," Chast said, jokingly. Hunter turned his face downward.

"…Is something wrong, Hunter?" Nila asked, concerned. Hunter offered no response, unsurprisingly.

"Oh, sorry…" Chast sighed, her jovial expression quickly turning to one of guilt, "Touchy subject."

As the six turned towards their plates of food, Nila couldn't help but notice how well their group functioned together. They were all different people, separately, but seemed to have a closeness that only hundreds of battles and many years together could forge.

The Dread Fighter Marius traded jokes with Chast across the table. His blue eyes were fiery with happiness, his spiky blond hair further complimenting his joking personality. Seeing a man in dark armor with a wolf skull on his shoulder be as friendly as Marius was undoubtedly unbelievable.

Sitting next to Chast was Valkus, who had since removed her black, gold trimmed plate armor and left it piled next to her chair. Despite being quite muscular, she was undeniably beautiful; unexpected for a no-nonsense armored general. She was quite a contrast for Chast, who lacked feminine curvature entirely.

Next to Marius sat Matt, the dark-skinned bear of a man. He was the leader of the Justice Brigade, as he told Nila while Chast was preparing breakfast, and looked the part. He was deep in conversation with Hunter, actually making him smile a little.

Nila, at the head of the table, quietly dug into his food. It tasted excellent, unlike anything he had ever experienced in his life.

"Who knew salmon would make a good breakfast?" he remarked, cutting off another piece of fish.

"It's Marius' favorite," Chast said from the other side of the table, "He can't get enough of it!"

"Guilty as charged," the Dread Fighter laughed. "I'm not ashamed to admit it, either. Keep it coming!"

The rest of the Brigade snickered. Nila sensed that salmon was probably a running joke in their group.

"How about a story, friends?" Nila asked, wonderingly. "You all must have gone to amazing places in your travels! I hardly leave the library."

"Sounds good to me," Valkus replied. "But before that, tell us a little about yourself, Nila. It's not often we sit down with someone over breakfast like this."

"Ah, I don't have much to tell. I'm pretty average."

"You've gotta have something!" Marius assured. "Everyone has a story."

"Right, and I do. But I'm not sure that it's one that I'd like to recount."

Chast turned from her plate, interest piqued.

"C'mon, tell us!"

Nila sighed, resting his temple against his fingertips.

"Alright, fine. What would you all like to know?"

The four interested in Nila thought for a moment. Matt, idea in hand, turned towards the coated man.

"Well, what do you do? Have you a job, profession, maybe?"

"I don't really do anything important anymore," Nila recounted, "But I used to draw up tactics for a Plegian mercenary group under my father. That was a couple of years ago, though. Since then I've lived here, studying, lending books out to those who still bother reading around here. Not much else."

"You're a tactician, then?" Matt asked.

"_A shoddy, terrible one."_ Nila thought. He quickly pushed the thought from his mind.

"I suppose so, yeah. It's just been books for me for these last few years. No combat experience to speak of since… then."

"Interesting, I can't say I've met a dedicated tactician before. Do you fight much, or just strategize?"

"I used the traditional 'outsmart your opponent' style. Sword and tome. You've probably heard of it, I imagine."

"Yeah, I use it too!" Marius said, joining the conversation. The black-armored man pointed towards the katana strapped to his side, with what appeared to be a snake wrapped around it.

"I've always been pretty good at magic. Wanted to be a mage back in the day, actually! Things started going down in my town when a bunch of dark mages showed up, though, so I took up the sword and fought them with my inherent magic resistance!"

Marius leaned back in his chair, sighing happily.

"Since then, my sword Zin has been at my side and I've fought for justice with these good fellows!"

The Justice Brigade erupted into laughter.

Matt grabbed Marius and put him into a headlock, still laughing monstrously.

"You know it, little buddy!"

As the table quieted down, Nila pressed the conversation further.

"Where did you grow up, Marius?" he asked. "Couldn't be anywhere near Plegia, I don't think. Dark mages don't really do much raiding around here. It's actually pretty peaceful compared to the past."

"Nope, nowhere near here, actually. I hate the heat. Born and raised in good old Regna Ferox! Well… not so good anymore, actually, with the whole Divide War situation going on."

"Ferox? What town?" Nila continued, unfazed by the mentioning of the war.

"Little old place called Stormguard, pretty close to Strester and the Arena. Just west of the Longfort. There was always an adventure in store around there, what with forests for miles around the place."

"I can imagine! It's been some time since I've left the desert, and I've never been to Ferox. I might have to make a trip up there sometime."

The Dread Fighter's expression quickly changed to one of sorrow.

"Well, you'd best wait a little bit. The Divide War isn't getting any less deadly, and the East has never really been supportive of tourism."

The table was quiet for a moment as the six finished their morning meal.

"You said you were a tactician once, right Nila?" Valkus began. "I recognize the coat style. Robin's right? Big fan?"

"Yes, actually, but the coat isn't in honor of him. It's a family heirloom."

Nila looked down at his coat again. It appeared clean, but all the blood tarnishing it…

"Wait, you're telling me you're related to the greatest tactician who ever lived? _The _Robin?"

The entire table, bar Hunter, gaped.

"Well… sort of. You're all familiar with Morgan, right? She's my great-great-grandmother."

"That still doesn't change the fact that you're related to the hero-tactician, though. Wasn't she his daughter? You don't look much like either of them do in paintings, but…" Valkus trailed off, unsure what to continue her point with.

"Yeah, I thought Robin's daughter had red hair," Chast recalled.

"No, no. Not that Morgan." Nila thought for a moment, then added,

"Well, she had red hair too, the one who traveled through time. That's the Morgan I'm related to. Not this timeline's Robin and Morgan. I'm not great with the whole idea of multiple timelines, it's a pretty complex system. I consider the two separate people. I think of it more like… spiritually related."

"That's still pretty cool, though!" Chast smiled at the ex-tactician. "Morgan was pretty great in her own right. Both of them."

"Yes… I suppose they were."

The table was quiet for some time after witnessing Nila's sudden downcast expression upon mentioning his ancestor. Clearing his throat, Nila continued.

"But enough about me. You all promised a story, right? Marius had a pretty good one, so I plan to hear one from you all before you walk out of here!"

Hunter, surprisingly, spoke up immediately, his attention was affixed to the window on the other side of the room.

"Do you see those people, out there? Is that normal around these parts?"

Nila rose from the table, rushing towards the window.

"Oh no. They actually…"

"Nila?" Chast asked, worried, "Is everything alright?"

"No, everything isn't alright! They're coming… around thirteen or so, maybe, from what I can see…"

"Who are they, Nila?" Matt questioned. "They're carrying the banner of Ylisse. Are you a criminal?"

"The only crime I've committed is my birthright! No, those are the Sons of Naga, an—"

"—An Ylissean supremacist group, right," Valkus interrupted, standing. "Why are they targeting you?"

"Well, they don't usually take too kindly to Plegians in general. I've fought them before with the mercenaries. But I'm also a Fellblood. Being related to Morgan and all, but that doesn't mean anything after Grima's demise."

Nila clenched his fists in anger. "They've been sending death threats for years, and last week they wrote that they'd come for my head, but I never imagined…"

"Good thing we got here when we did," Matt replied comfortingly, laying a hand on Nila's shoulder. "Because we're the Justice Brigade! We fight for justice, and that cult has no honor from what I've heard. Using Naga's good name to murder innocents is inexcusable!"

Matt unsheathed his axe, raising it towards the ceiling. He turned to his brigade.

"Chast, Valkus, Hunter, Marius! To arms! Today, we fight! For justice!"

"For justice!" the brigade chanted. The five heroes sprinted towards the door, ready to face the adversaries marching upon the library.

Nila hesitantly followed, reaching for his spellbook resting upon his desk, and removing Ashen from the wall, clutching the gray blade firmly in his hand. Sparks began to fly from the blade's wicked edge as he followed the Justice Brigade to battle.

Exiting the library, the coated man noticed the whole of the forces that the Sons of Naga had sent had lined up in formation, their advance halted. They had brought exactly twelve fighters.

_"Enough to overwhelm me, yet few enough to travel covertly. Cunning. But where did the thirteenth go?"_

Nila immediately noticed Matt was mounted upon a massive wyvern, speaking with someone from the Sons' forces.

"_Where the hell did he hide that thing all morning?"_

Close behind, Chast sat upon a great white Pegasus, similarly as confounding Nila, while the other three Brigadiers remained distant; yet, they were ready to strike at a moment's notice. Nila noticed Valkus had found the javelin rack laying beside his house, and was testing the weight on the throwing spear. However, Valkus looked slightly different than before; what it was, Nila could not lay a finger upon.

Nila approached the three, noticing Matt was arguing with a mounted women, wearing traditional Ylissean ranger garb: blue cured leather with golden plating adorning the shoulders and gloves. Her face was hidden behind a similarly colored bandana and hood. She appeared to be the leader of the Sons' forces, her appearance separating her from that of her followers. Making himself subtle, he took a position next to Valkus.

"Valkus? Did you—"

"Did I what?" she replied, confused.

At that moment, Nila finally noticed why Valkus looked different from when they had first met.

"You forgot your armor."

The general looked down, and laid her head in her hands.

"Oh, gods damn it. I need to go back for it, but—"

"Actually, don't. On sandy terrain, being lighter on your feet will serve you better. You still have your shield, though, which should be protection enough.

Nila turned back to where the two leaders were arguing, their voices clearly not on the topic of peace.

"I don't think we're getting out of this scrape without a fight."

"Ah, I see you've led the rat out of his little hole, wyvern rider. I give you my thanks for that." It was not Valkus who reciprocated his statement, but the mounted woman Matt had been arguing with earlier. She had silently strode over to where the four had been standing.

"Justice for that man is not yours to allot, dastard," Matt threatened, following her and positioning his wyvern between the ex-tactician and the Sons' commander.

"He has done no wrong and deserves no punishment," Chast proclaimed, approaching on her Pegasus. Her childlike personality had all but evaporated. "If you disagree, you'll have to deal with all of us."

"You still don't get it, do you?" The ranger raised the golden-metal longbow that was strapped to the side of her mount.

"You're all blind to the fact that this dog is a Fellblood," she said, scowling at the name, "A child of the demon Grima. He deserves to die like all the others of his kind we've killed."

She backed up her horse, a vicious-looking black steed, positioning herself behind the encroaching squad of Sons.

"If you disagree, I will not hesitate to let my men on you. Those who assist demons like him deserve to die as traitors to the halidom. Well? What say you?"

"I say you're a butcher and murderer, doling out vigilante justice," Matt countered, "What good has your 'halidom' done for the rest of the world? Is closing your gates to the rest of the world good enough for you?"

"I recommend you withdraw those words, craven, lest I set my soldiers upon you." The ranger grimaced at Matt's insult, obviously displeased with the state of their nation as well.

"Looks like I've stuck a nerve," the dark-skinned man chuckled, "Why don't you put your sword where your mouth is?"

The ranger smirked, nocking an arrow.

"Sons of the divine dragon! Children of the halidom! Bring me their heads!"

At their leader's command, the enemy forces cheered, weapons held high, and charged the party, their eyes burning with hatred. Their leader retreated to a safer position behind the front line of units.

Matt leveled his axe to his chest.

"Twelve on six, huh? That's hardly fair."

Right on cue, two golden javelins soared across the desert sands, glinting in the fierce sunlight. Their blades pierced directly into the chests of two mages, felling them instantly.

"Perfect timing. Thank you, Valkus, you're a gem."

Matt turned towards the incoming enemy, a knowing gleam in his eye.

"Alright. You all know what to do. Give 'em hell."

– – –

At Matt's call the Brigade roared with vigor and charged towards the fray. Valkus, however, hung back as she might have had she been fully armored.

"Valkus," Nila called, churning electricity through Ashen, "You're lighter on your feet now! Use your strength and speed to overpower the enemy!"

"Got it!" she called back, readying her massive black and gold kiteshield, spear pointed forward.

"Focus on the ones with swords. Get up close and personal with them before they can sidestep you!"

"Thanks, tactician! See you in the fray!" With that, the lancer hurdled towards the open desert with newfound speed.

_Tactician._ Nila had not heard those words in years. Focusing, the man sized up the battlefield, noticing the group of twelve was composed of two archers, four mages—two of whom were impaled with spears—two swordsmen, an axe fighter, two pegasus knights, and the bow knight leader, all wearing traditional Ylissean vestments. Chast and Matt had already taken to the skies, trading blows with the two enemy fliers.

The fray on the ground was more spread out, the three groundborne justicars hesitating in front of the enemy lines. The Sons of Naga had paused, too, their leader far behind the group guarded by the axe-wielding fighter and a mage. Nila rushed to join his three companions.

"Hunter, get into range before that archer over there can let his bow fly. Marius, get in close to the mage and absorb his spells. Valkus will deal with the ones with the swords. I'll pick off any stray fighters."

The three nodded, readying their weapons. Marius unsheathed his snake sword, Hunter his twin steel blades, and Valkus held her spear at the ready.

"What are you lot waiting for?" the bow knight at the back barked, letting an arrow fly. "Kill them!"

The Sons sprang into action once again. Archers let arrows fly with no discrimination at the group, and the mages readied weak thunder magic while the swordsmen charged forward. The axe wielder and the mage remained stalwart at their leader's side.

The group of four split off, Nila rushing headlong towards one of the two swordsmen. Their blades clashed, the Ylissean flinching as his sword conducted Ashen's electricity. Nila attempted to lacerate the swordsman's side, but was met with a swift parry and kick to the chest. The tactician crashed forcefully into the desert sands, his sword flying from his hand. The blade's electricity faded.

The enemy swordsman readied his sword to plunge into the Nila's chest, the tactician barely rolling to the side to dodge the blade. Unclipping the spellbook from his belt, he quickly opened the book to a random page.

The spell detailing Nosferatu met his gaze. Channeling from the tome, Nila launched the black mass of energy into the swordsman's unsuspecting side. The swordsman screamed in agony, while the pain from his earlier kick tapered off from the magic's effect. The coated man reached for the sword, energy beginning to flow through the blade once more. He thrusted his blade through the swordsman's side, felling the Ylissean.

Nila readjusted to his surroundings. Valkus was duelling the second Ylissean swordsman, her barreling strength overwhelming him. She slammed her shield into his chest, sending him flying back before plunging her spear into the man's chest.

Nearby, Marius had caught the attention of the mage not guarding their leader. He rushed towards the unsuspecting spellcaster, shrugging off her thunder spells as if they were nothing.

Hunter barreled into one of the two archers, who had given up on using her bow offensively. Instead, she used the metal weapon to block the swordmaster's unyielding strikes. Hunter fought with a fury Nila had never seen before.

"I'll notify your next of kin!" the swordsman yelled, bringing both of his swords down together on the center of the archer's bow. The weapon shattered, leaving the Ylissean woman defenseless as Hunter ran her through with his blades.

The tactician glanced towards a dune, where he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. The second archer, who had made himself scarce since the beginning of combat, had positioned himself upon the top of the dune, nocking an arrow pointed towards Hunter. His back was turned to the archer, recovering after his bout with the female archer.

Nila turned the pages of his spellbook to the final entry. The page illustrated the Ruin spell, the most advanced spell he knew. Dark energy erupted from his hands.

"Get a load of this!" the tactician shouted, his voice rising above the clamor of aerial combat. Yellow runes glowed in the air around the black-coated man finished the spell. Similar runes appeared around the unknowing archer, who had no time to react before the cross of dark energy overwhelmed him. As the darkness centered around the blast cleared, the archer lay dead, his body badly burned.

Nila panted, falling to his knees. The spell had taken an extreme amount of energy to fire, not any amount that the tactician was used to. Turning his head toward the sky. The battle between the flying justicars and the pegasus-bound Sons had all but diminished. The four fought, trading blows as jousters would on the ground.

Chast guided her pegasus around, turning towards the pegasus rider that had just traded a blow with Matt. She commanded her mount to dive, rushing towards the briefly stunned flier. Before the enemy could command her winged steed to turn, Chast impaled her lance through the pegasus' wing, sending it spiraling down into the desert sands. Noticing Nila upon the ground, she rode her pegasus towards the man, landing at his side.

"Here, let me get you back up," she said, reaching for the green orb-topped wooden staff strapped to her back. Raising it into the air, she coated Nila with a soothing green light.

"Thanks," he replied, energy returning to him. "Nice work up there."

"And to you down here! You'd better be quick if you want to help finish off their leader. The three of them look like they're having all the fun!"

Chast pointed towards the location where the bow knight and her bodyguards had been positioned earlier. Marius had moved on from the knight he was dueling earlier, and was now face to face with the magus that was guarding their leader earlier.

Hunter, having recovered from his bout with the female ranger, had barreled into the axe fighter, abusing his innate advantage over his opponent's choice of weapon. The fighter could not keep up with Hunter's furious strikes, and fell quickly to sideswipe from the swordmaster.

Valkus, however, was not as lucky as her two friends. The bow knight pelted the unfortunate knight with a barrage of golden arrows, circling around her.

"You'd better go help her," Chast continued. "I'll help Matt take down the other Pegasus Knight."

The purple-clothed rider tightened her mount's reins.

"Owar, let's go!" With that, the rider sailed into the sky to assist Matt, still, challenged by the pegasus wearing armor emblazoned with the Brand of the Exalt and her rider.

Nila flipped the pages of his spellbook and readied an Elwind spell, charging towards the bow knight and Valkus. Noticing the tactician's advance, the Sons' leader hoisted the greatsword from her back, knocking over the unarmored knight with the flat of her sword. She turned to face Nila, arrow at the ready.

"I am Grand Ranger Kayla, second-in-command of the Sons of Naga. And I will be your end, Fellblood."

Kayla let her nocked arrow fly, Nila reacting just in time to divert its path with a swift usage of Elwind. Before he could ready another Elwind, the bow knight had already let another arrow fly, barely missing the tactician's right shoulder. Completing the Elwind, he let the crescents of wind fly, connecting directly with the mounted ranger.

The bow knight winced as the wind spell cut into her. She reached for another arrow, but her quiver had emptied from her earlier assault on Valkus. Cursing, she placed the massive longbow into its holder on the side of her mount and drew her gold highlighted steel greatsword.

"This ends here, demon," Kayla roared, ignoring the pain of the wind spell. "I will cut you down myself!"

The bow knight charged towards the tactician with blazing speed. She recklessly swung the massive weapon like a club. Nila barely dodged the hit, rolling to the side as the massive blow swung through where he had been standing earlier.

As Kayla charged through, she smirked. Unsheathing a throwing dagger from her belt, she tossed the blade with deadly accuracy into the back of Nila's thigh. The tactician cried out with pain, falling to the ground. He tore the weapon from his body, screaming once again, before turning the pages in his book to the Nosferatu spell. He launched the black mass at the ranger, who had begun another charge towards the downed tactician. The spell collided with Kayla's horse, who had no time to redirect its headlong rush to either side.

The horse whinnied before keeling over in pain, dropping her into the desert sands. Kayla skidded a distance in the sand, before rolling on her side a ways before stopping. Before Nila coult think to react, a large, white rune appeared on the ground beneath the horse and her rider.

Kayla spat blood from her mouth, scowling at the downed tactician.

"The next time we meet, Fellblood, it won't be on unholy ground. And when we do, I will kill you."

The ranger sheathed her greatsword, and disappeared in a brilliant flash of light.

– – –

Nila coughed, dust settling from the effects of the rescue staff. The Nosferatu that Nila damaged the horse with had been strong enough to close the wound from Kayla's throwing knife, but the pain had not diminished entirely.

Glancing around the battlefield once again, Nila saw Marius standing over the body of the second mage, triumphantly. Hunter was helping Valkus stand up, while Chast was healing the two of them. Matt had dismounted his wyvern and rushed to Nila's side.

"Nila!" the dark-skinned wyvern lord cried, "You alright?"

The tactician winced as he attempted to stand up.

"Yeah, I'm alright. That bow knight was no joke, though."

Matt lended Nila a hand, hoisting the coated man to his feet.

"Tough battle, wasn't it? Haven't fought enemies that strong in a long time. Bob was pretty riled up, too."

"Bob?" Nila asked, confused.

"Oh, he's my wyvern," Matt deadpanned.

"You had all the options in the world to name your wyvern, and you named him Bob."

"What? I like the name. I think it suits him."

"…I think I need a healer. I must be going insane."

Matt turned to Chast, off in the distance.

"Chast, Nila needs some healing!" the dark-skinned man yelled, laughing slightly.

Hearing the leader of the Justice Brigade, the Falcon Knight quickly flew over to where the two were standing, bathing Nila in green healing light. The tactician sighed, comfortedly.

"Thanks again, Chast."

She smiled, and said, "No problem! That's what I do!"

The other three members of the Justice Brigade cleared the hill, joining Nila and the two justicars.

"Whew, that was intense!" Marius hoisted his snakebound sword above his shoulder. "I really needed to stretch my sword hand."

"Well, you'll get another chance," Nila said, sheathing Ashen and clipping his spellbook to his belt. "Their leader got away. They had a rescuer posted somewhere nearby. No doubt that the two of them are long gone by this point."

"I think I know where she might be going," Matt stated, "She matched the description of the woman who had been leading Ylisseans in Plegian border villages. She probably took a detour up here to deal with you before continuing to her original destination."

"Original destination, as in—"

"The town of the man who requested our aid a few weeks ago, yeah," Valkus interrupted. "We'd best head over there before that ranger has time to rally forces."

Nila smiled, and extended his hand towards the general.

"It was an honor fighting with you all. I'm glad I could offer what services I could. Good luck out on the field, I'm rooting for you!"

Valkus stared at Nila's outstretched hand before bursting into laughter.

"Oh, you think you're staying here! Cute. No, you're coming with us, you idiot! We need a skilled strategist like you out there."

"Me? But I'm—"

Marius giggled, wrapping his arm around the coated man's shoulders, burying his hand between his thumb and index finger as if he was in deep thought.

"Hmm… let's see. You told us which people to fight, killed two of those guys, and went toe to toe with their leader. And you're telling us that you're not good enough to join us?"

"Well—"

"Given, we probably would have fought the people that we did anyway, but you look like you know what you're doing. C'mon, what do you say?" Marius unlatched himself from the stunned tactician.

"Erm…"

Nila debated internally.

"_Nila, this is a chance to redeem your mercenaries!" _one part of him urged.

"_But you could lead these people to their doom, just as you did before. History has a way of repeating."_

"_If you're looking for your chance, now is the time to take action."_

"Alright. I'm in."

"Good man!" Matt clapped his shoulder. Looking around Nila examined the faces of the Brigadiers. Valkus and Chast stood next to each other, smiling gently at him. Marius held two thumbs up, grinning widely. Hunter didn't seem too upset with the decision, either. Matt held the coated man's shoulder, laughing boisterously.

"Welcome to the team!"

* * *

**Roster**

***New* No.001 Nila**

A resident of Plegia and descendent of one of the famous time travelers of Ylissean past, Morgan. Although weakly, he carries the same blood of Grima used to revive the fell dragon generations ago. He was a tactician for the Plegian Mercenaries in the past, who eventually dissolved under his leadership.

The most likely fall asleep while reading.

Born on December 20th, age 24.

Class: Tactician (**Sword**|**Anima**, **Dark** from Shadowgift)

***New* No.002 Matthew**

The leader of a group of fighters known as the Justice Brigade, who prefers the name Matt. He brought the group together after he and Hunter fled a devastated city in Western Ferox, one of the first Western settlements destroyed by the marauding nation. His confident personality is what the Justice Brigade's foundation stands upon, yet he harbors doubts of his own sometimes.

The one who slouches the most.

Born on January 2nd, age 21.

Class: Wyvern Lord (**Axe**|Lance)

***New* No.003 Hunter**

A Feroxian duelist with a deadly mastery of swordplay. He has lived in not one, but two villages that have been razed by magic-wielding bandits or conquesting Easterners. The loss of his sister invoked a keen sense of justice within him and a fear of magic and fire.

The least fond of parlor tricks.

Born on January 25th, age 22.

Class: Swordmaster (**Sword**)

***New* No.004 Chastity**

An Ylissean Falcon Knight—who prefers to go by Chast—with pale white skin and red eyes. Her albinism runs in the family, being shared with her father. She had high hopes of joining the Ylissean cavalry, yet was advised to pursue a separate line of work by her father. She instead took up work as a mercenary, and eventually met Matt after he saved her life.

The one with the scariest glare.

Born on October 29th, age 17.

Class: Falcon Knight (**Lance**|**Staff**)

***New* No.005 Marius**

A peculiar fighter hailing from Stormguard. Initially striving to be a scholar, Marius studied magic diligently throughout his childhood. However, he shifted priorities when bands of rogue dark mages attacked the settlement. With his interesting combination of swords, Anima, and throwing axes, he joined the enthusiastic Justice Brigade to put his skills to the test.

The one with the worst sense of humor.

Born on April 1st, age 20.

Class: Dread Fighter (**Sword**|**Axe**|**Anima**)

***New* No.006 Valkus**

A Valmese quartermaster who tolerates nonsense of no kind. After a false claim of fraudulence, Valkus chartered a ship to the Ylissean continent. She joined the Justice Brigade after falling to them in a battle to mete out justice for herself and others. How this beauty's personality meshes with the jovial brigade is a mystery.

The most likely to enjoy taking inventory.

Born on March 25th, age 28.

Class: General (**Lance**|Axe)


	4. 1: Beginnings

Heavy snowfall and wind blew violently into the small lecture hall's lone window, threatening to tear the fragile pane from the wall. A lone candle illuminated the room, undisturbed by the howling gale outside, and casted an ominous glow onto its surroundings.

From the hallway outside, an older man and a younger woman clambered into the dim room, the man slamming the bar latch into position, sealing the two inside. While the two regained their composure, frightening shouts echoed down the corridor.

"…that way…!"

"…can't let them escape…!"

"…there is nowhere for you to run any longer…"

The red-cloaked girl panted in exhaustion, while the black-robed mage held his tall, dark mage hat low to conceal his eyes.

"Are you alright, Esthara?"

After her panting began to taper down, she met her mentor's gaze.

"I-I'm fine, professor."

"Are you certain you're okay, my dear? Because if my eyes did not fail me during our encounter…"

The professor gently moved Esthara's scarlet cloak to the side, revealing a bloody gash in her oblique. Blood still flowed idly, staining the fabric of her simple white underblouse.

"It is as I expected. You must let me treat your wound," the professor said, concernedly.

"We don't have time!" Esthara exclaimed, "They're still coming…"

"We have plenty of time to not ignore basic medical procedure," he responded, removing a roll of bandages from a drawer in his desk.

"Best to not allow the risk for death on two fronts. In a perilous situation such as this, it is wise to—"

"—minimize the risk of fatality as much as possible." the wounded girl finished. "From your lecture, three days ago."

"Ah, I knew there was a reason you are my top student, Esthara."

The graying professor smiled warmly, his blue eyes appearing a dull gray in the dim candlelight, a similar shade to that of Esthara's natural eye color.

"Now, let me take care of that injury of yours…"

The professor tightly wound the bandage fabric around Esthara's still bleeding wound, halting the gash's flow of blood. She winced as the pressure from the bandage disturbed her injury.

"Much better. Now we can deal with the more threatening situation at hand," the professor observed, placing his gray bearded chin in his hand, assuming a standard thinking position.

"I trust you already know exactly who our adversaries were this dreadful night."

Esthara nodded.

"Yes… but I don't understand why, Professor. Those people were our friends just yesterday!"

The professor responded with a knowingly sad tone.

"I agree, it is quite concerning that the local guard has turned against us in such a short period of time. But this sudden incursion reveals quite a large amount of information."

He approached the blackboard at the end of the room, and erased his previously drawn images of battle coordination from the lecture earlier in the day.

"It… reveals something?" Esthara pondered.

"Quite right. And I believe you've already deduced what it is. But you probably are not fond of the result."

"I have, but I don't want to believe it is true, professor. It _can't_ be true. It can't possibly!"

"Unfortunately, we must make this assumption. The evidence pointing towards it is insurmountable. I am not enamored with this situation myself either, but we must recognize it before we can figure out exactly what to do about it."

"Ylisse has fallen," Esthara uttered in monotone.

"Indeed."

The professor's expression became grave as he turned away from his student. He began sketching an image of a person onto the freshly erased surface. His old hand danced across the surface with vigor, creating an astoundingly realistic representation in quite a short amount of time.

"This man, Esthara," the professor began, calmly, "Can you remember this man's face?"

"I haven't seen it before, if that's what you're asking."

"No, no. I need you to memorize it for me."

"I… I think I can do that. Why are you asking me to do this, professor?"

"Because it is imperative that you find this man, Esthara."

The professor swiveled agilely around on one foot, surprising from his old age, gazing intently at his student.

"This man's name is Lester, Knight of Blackwood. You should be able to find him at Arena Ferox in several days' time."

"But—"

The professor interrupted, "Please, let me finish before you ask questions. Time is of the essence at the moment."

"I apologize. Please continue."

The professor cleared his throat before continuing.

"You must travel to Arena Ferox. If the details do not escape me, he should be traveling with two other humans and a taguel, en route to Ferox. Find him and ask him for his help. If you mention my name, he should understand the situation.

"If Ylisse has indeed fallen, as we have deduced, you must remember this phrase if you are to blend in: 'I live to serve her divinity.'"

"Isn't that—"

"Indeed. You understand which group this phrase belongs to, as I expected. Tell that to the wagon driver early tomorrow morning whilst slipping him the fare. He should bring you directly to Arena Ferox, if you ask. Just remember to keep the hood on you cloak low, just in case."

The professor paused as he ended his instructions.

"Have you any questions?"

A look of concern grew on Esthara's face.

"Just one, sir. Why are you telling me all of this? Aren't you coming with me?"

The professor shook his head, frowning.

"Alas, I cannot, my dear girl. Someone must stay behind to deal with these gentlemen."

"Gentle? Hardly…" Esthara muttered quietly under her breath before exclaiming, "But I don't know how I can make it out there on my own! Why can't you come with?"

"They know my identity, Esthara. But the only five that know who you are are in this very building."

"We can take them on together, then! I need you!"

The professor approached his student, kneeling down in front of her. His usual towering height disappeared, becoming just barely shorter than Esthara's smaller figure. He took her hands in his own.

"You are nineteen years old now, Esthara, more than old enough to travel on your own. Unfortunately, this must be done if you are to be safe from the perils that await out there."

"But—"

"Remember this for me. What is the very first lesson that I taught? The first phrase I said before beginning your education?"

Esthara pondered momentarily, the answer coming to her quickly. She closed her eyes as she recalled the exact situation.

"A good tactician has nothing to fear."

The professor grinned.

"That's my girl. My grandfather learned from the greatest to have ever lived, and I have learned from him. I've passed nearly everything down to you, and it is time to put that knowledge to work, my dear. I have utmost faith in you."

Tears welled up in Esthara's eyes as she received the praise from her mentor, who was not one to idly compliment his students.

"Thank you, professor. That means a lot to me."

"I mean every word of it. Now, have you Mercurius?"

Esthara grasped the red fabric adorning the ancient blade's hilt, and nodded.

"I do."

"Excellent. That blade will be an important ally in your travels to come. You may have not been able to comprehend magic, but your swordplay is second to none."

"Thank you, sir. Anything else I need to know?"

The professor thought for a brief moment before adding, "It is a strategist's duty to preserve the lives of their allies. This I have done for you, and you must also do this for those you befriend in the future. You mustn't worry yourself. Everything is going to be alright, on my word."

As the professor spoke, the murmurs from the hallway finally converged onto the haven the two had taken from the assault.

"…they're in here, Malik! On your orders…!"

"Are they? Stand back…"

The head of a wicked red axe cut widly through the flimsy wooden barrier, wooden shards splintering and clattering against the floor. The door inexplicably managed to hold from the first assault, yet it still threatened to splinter under the force of the next blow. The axeman attempted to pull the handle out, yet experienced some difficulty removing the blade.

"It seems that they have found found us. Quickly, to the window!"

The aged mage quickly drew an Arcthunder from his spell tome, and summoned two massive bolts of lightning in front of the glass pane. The sturdy brick wall and more fragile glass shattered under the power of the spell, sending brick and glass splinters in every direction.

"I promise you, I will be fine! Go, now!"

The student nodded, sprinting to the exit as her simple brown boots became punctured by the debris. Before approaching the threshold, she turned to take one last look at her mentor.

The wild gales of wind blew in from outside, causing her cloak to billow out around her. Her two long braids of blonde hair, normally resting in front of her shoulders, were picked up by the storm and blown violently in all directions.

She put one hand to her chest, closing it into a fist. She turned from the professor, trudging as quickly as she could through the snow banks into the wintery unknown as shots of powerful magic rang out from the building behind her.

* * *

Nila reentered his library home, the Justice Brigade tailing behind him. He brushed the sand from his hair, surprisingly more than he had anticipated, dusting the red carpet of the entrance hall with a thin layer of yellow. He placed his purple-highlighted gray blade on its wall hanger before turning towards his new companions.

"I need a few minutes to prepare. Make yourselves at home."

"As if we hadn't done that already," Marius snickered, charging into the foyer. He leaped headfirst into the embrace of the sole couch set up near the staircase.

"Don't break anything, Marius," Nila laughed, "The furniture is very expensive."

"I'll say," the Dread Fighter spoke into the fabric of the couch, "It's very comfortable."

Shaking her head in disbelief, Valkus opened the door to the kitchen in search of her missing armor.

"Not too long," she called, an audible clanging emanating from the room. She had obviously found what she was looking for.

"We'll need to get moving quickly if we're to catch up with the ranger."

"Right. I'll only need a minute or two," responded Nila, ascending the spiral staircase into his chamber. At the top of the steps, the coated man twisted the knob and entered the small room.

The room was the same as he had left it before dawn; the white bedsheets had been strewn across the mattress after the events of his nightmare. However, the candlestick's flame had since dwindled to tiny embers. Next to the bed was a large pile of books resting upon the red carpet that had been neglected and remained unshelved for several nights. The midday sun shone through a crack, illuminating a sole book on an otherwise empty bookshelf adjacent to a full body mirror.

The coated man picked up the candlestick's golden base before blowing the dying flame out and setting it back down. Turning his attention to the pile of books, he dug in through the tomes, eventually placing three of them on the mattress.

Robin's _Basic Guide to Battle Strategy_ and _Advanced Tactics_ lay upright upon the surface. Another, _Subterfuge in Strategy_, was placed near them as well. It written millennia upon millennia ago by Marth's tactician, Katarina, yet was still quite relevant in modern tactics. Making a mental note to bring _A Treatise on Tactics and Advanced Military Coordination_ with him too, Nila strode across the room and collected a small pack from the room's corner, placing the three tomes inside among a quill and sealed inkwell as well as travel necessities.

Hoisting the pack upon his back, Nila slowly walked to the door. He reached out to turn the knob again to exit the room, yet paused. Placing the pack upon the floor, he stepped across the floor, stopping in front of the near empty bookshelf. He brushed his fingers on the lone blue book upon the shelf, clearing a thin layer of dust away from the tome. The text on the white label on the book's surface had since faded, but Nila knew the contents all too well.

"_My old poetry book,"_ Nila thought, turning the brittle pages to the last entry. The ink had faded almost completely since he last wrote in between the pages, but what he wrote was still fresh in his mind. Out of frustration, Nila slammed the covers shut and tossed the brittle tome onto his unmade bed, remembering exactly why he had stopped writing poetry in the first place. He fell to his knees.

"Marisa… I'm—"

"It's alright, brother," a voice responded to him. He turned towards the mirror out of disbelief, but a figure that was not his own replaced his reflection.

His sister, standing upright, appeared in the glass. She smiled sadly at him, her still-scarred amber eyes welled up with tears. She was similar to Nila, with similar eye color, dark brown hair, and height. Even the blouse she wore was similar in color to Nila's coat, the very same one she wore before she was killed. Yet, she seemed mature beyond her days, a trait Nila did not remember her possessing.

Nila blinked, and stuttered, "S-sister? But I thought—"

He broke off. Marisa's visage was gone. Nila spoke only to the sad, crumpled reflection of his own keeling over on the floor. The coated man righted himself before giving another suspicious glance at the mirror. His sister still did not appear, only his saddened and confused face stared back at him.

Nila sighed. He knew exactly what that hallucination meant for him. Just like the return of the voices in his dream, he was starting to hallucinate again. After being healthy for so long…

Banishing his eventual fate from his thoughts, Nila stepped towards the sheets he threw his book upon. The tome was open to pages not yet written in: blank, pristine, waiting to be filled with words. Lifting the book into his hands, he turned the pages back towards the faded verse he had written for his passed sister and make a note to rewrite the verse he had written so long ago. He thought over it again, tears threatening to spill onto the delicate, brittle pages.

Shutting the tome gently, he carried it to the pack he had abandoned near the door, dropping it in among the other three he had collected. He turned towards the door, but hesitated once again.

He approached his nightstand, a small lacquer box placed at the very back behind the now extinguished candlestick, shoved away like a forgotten bad memory.

He opened the purple ornamented box, and gently grasped a small golden pendant with the ancient Mark of Grima etched in the center with purple amethyst, lifting it up towards the ceiling. It had been his sister's, the very same one she wore into every battle. The tiny jade pendant was the only effect he recovered from the forest they had fought in. Nila tentatively clasped the chain in place before tucking the memento underneath his white undershirt.

Exhaling deeply, as if steeling himself for what lay ahead of him, Nila reopened the door and descended the spiraled steps towards the library parlor once again.

* * *

"Remind me how exactly you managed to get this covered wagon, Brooks."

Samuel pulled up a chair to the desk that Brooks was working at under the soft glow of candlelight. The mage was writing in a book of sorts, with the Brand of the Exalt emblazoned on its striking green cover.

The wagon clattered along the roadside quite smoothly, the increasing wind speed not seeming to slow the journey air had grown quite cold since the four arrived at Homely Hearth, the high wind speeds contributing to the frigid chill. A light snowfall began as well after the sun had began its leisurely descent below the horizon, dusting the freshly-cleared footpath. Clouds began to gather on the horizon, promising a devastating snowstorm further into the night.

"Ah, not just a covered wagon, my friend," Brooks replied, smiling smugly. "_Conestoga_. Faster, smoother, and more room to work. Not sure with I agree with the shape of it, mind."

"I… see. And as to how you got it…?"

The dark-robed maged clapped his priest friend on the shoulder, grinning widely.

"See, it helps to have connections and pending favors _everywhere_. I may not have traveled to this specific bit of Ferox before, but a lot of my friends have. Just one simple letter landed us this beauty!"

Brooks raised both of his hands into the air, in gesture to the entirety of the peculiarly shaped vehicle.

"And hey, we got an extra horse out of it, too," Brooks snickered before adding, "Maybe Desmond will finally have someone to talk to besides poor Lester up there."

Samuel quickly glanced at the taguel, riding up front with Lester. Desmond's new horse was noticeably more pathetic than the majestic steed Lester was mounted upon.

"Can Desmond really…?"

"Eh, probably. I haven't bothered to question him about it. But it makes sense, since they're both animals and all."

"_Part_ animal!" Desmond's voice rang out angrily from the front of the wagon, where he was perched upon a tawny, unarmored steed. It looked pathetic compared to Lester's muscular, golden-armored white steed.

Brooks burst into laughter.

"Sorry, Des! Didn't think you could hear me all the way back here!"

The taguel turned his head back to meet the mage's gaze. He narrowed his eyes.

"I've got bunny ears. Biggest in my family. Don't mess with me, pal."

Brooks cackled even harder before sticking his tongue out to Desmond. The taguel rolled his eyes and turned away from the mage, rummaging through his pack.

Samuel shook his head, confused.

"I cannot believe what I've just heard. Gods save us all."

Brooks finally controlling his outburst, responded quietly, "You know it's true."

"I think not, Brooks. Desmond's more human than taguel. By a large margin, in fact."

"Well, I still believe he can talk to horses!" Brooks crossed his arms, pouting mockingly.

The priest pinched his brow, sighing.

"Anyway, that isn't why I came over here. What exactly are you doing?"

"Me?" the mage responded, quizzically. "Not much. Just inking my spellbook. Damned ink fades so quickly…"

"Inking? I thought mages bought their tomes, like anyone else bought their weapons."

Brooks tisked, shaking his head in disappointment.

"Oh, Samuel, you're living so, _so_ far in the past. A couple hundred, actually. But at any rate, I suppose there's a good story involved with what exactly I'm doing here!"

"Oh gods, here we go again," the priest muttered under his breath.

"'Tell me more,' you say? Happy to oblige, friend of mine!"

The dark-robed mage beamed widely, pulling a newly-bound book from his pack. He cracked the pages open, and cleared his throat.

"I can't remember the _exact_ date, but it happened at some point soon after the famous Grima War of the past," the mage said, skimming the book's pages. He soon stopped, pointing at a word obscured from Samuel's gaze.

"Ah, here it is," the mage announced proudly, slamming the two covers shut before tossing the tome carelessly behind his shoulder. It landed behind the desk built into the side of the wagon, falling to the floor in a soft thump. He pointed directly at Samuel's face, causing the white-robed priest to back his head up several inches.

"So, here's the thing. For millennia, mages have always used the same type of spell tome," Brooks regaled, wagging his finger in front of the priest's discontented face. "Only holding one spell, comically bursting into flames or fading to a pile of dust after a certain number of spell usages… that sort of thing. Though, sometimes the ink just faded away and left the user with only an empty book."

"Anyway, this one genius mage—Laurent, his name was—researched the problem for most of his life. And, get this, a few months before he died, he discovered the problem."

Brooks turned back to his desk, and picked up the green spellbook he had been working on earlier. He put his thumb to the pages end, flipping the pages quickly.

"It's in the paper."

As the paper reached the last few pages, Brooks closed the book and laid it gently on the desktop.

"Turns out that using regular old paper isn't a reliable way of documenting spells. What Laurent did is he used paper made from a specific type of plant that grows at the roots of the Mila tree."

The mage glanced around, looking for the book he had thrown earlier, and retrieved it from behind the desk. He turned to a page near the front, showing it to the priest. It displayed a drawing of a plant, with a thin green stem and a massive, light blue flower at its tip. It looked quite magically potent even by looking at it.

"This plant is called Milathistle. After seeing how well it conducts magic, it blooming near the Mila Tree of all places, he made some of it into paper. After writing the runes for the spell on only a single page of this stuff, he could cast even the most powerful of spells no matter how much he wanted."

"The Bolganone tome, with the spell marked on hundreds of pages in a traditional spellbook, only yields twenty-five uses before it catches fire and burns away for good. On one sheet of Milathistle? Infinite!"

Brooks beamed as he clapped Samuel's shoulder once again.

"And with that, dear friend, is how these spellbooks came to be. Any amount of spells—dark, anima, or otherwise—can be written in a single book and are available to cast at any time. However, you still have to turn to the correct page in order to access the spell you want to use. Laurent never did figure out how to fix that problem."

Samuel stared with disbelief.

"So, you're telling me the quintessential problem mages faced for _tens of thousands_ of years… was paper."

Brooks deadpanned.

"Yup. That about sums it up."

"You know, for some reason I'm not entirely surprised," Samuel remarked, directing his eyes upward for a moment before returning to Brooks' gaze. "But you'd think that at some point at least _someone_ might wonder why their weapons were liable to explode after a few casts."

"I know, right?" Brooks responded. "To think that all the greatest mages from the past had to fight with the traditional tomes. Ellerean, Celica, all of them. What if they forgot how many casts they put into their book? They'd just have a pile of ash to fight with!"

"I think that they kept good track of that certain aspect. That'd be like Lester forgetting to bring his sword into battle."

Brooks laughed heartily.

"Hold on… I'm trying to imagine that… but I just can't!"

Samuel began to chuckle as well, joining his friend in laughter.

"It's quite the farce, isn't it? Either way, I'm sure that the likes of Miriel and Merric were able to deal with that drawback quite easily. They probably carried an extra tome or two when they were getting low on usage."

"But where did they manage to find the space? I have space for only one book on my belt."

Samuel facepalmed, sighing heavily at the mage's remark.

"…Did I say something wrong?" the mage asked in response.

"No. No, you didn't. Either way, why don't you finish your inking? We'll need that magic of yours if we're to get in a fight with some Feroxians down this road. You know how well the brutes love their fighting up here."

Brooks thought for a moment, resting his head atop his closed fist.

"That I do. That I do. Good talking, Samuel."

"And to you as well, friend," the priest replied, grinning softly.

The mage turned back to his work. However, he quickly turned back to his friend, eyes lit up.

"How would you like to learn magic?"

* * *

"So, what was that all about, Desmond?"

Lester turned to the taguel, mounted atop his divine steed. Desmond glanced at the paladin from the horse adjacent to Lester's briefly before turning away and rummaging through the pack hanging from his right shoulder.

"Don't mind him. Just Brooks being Brooks, as usual."

Lester shook his head, grinning slightly.

"No, no. Not that. The whole 'talking to animals' bit," the paladin said, laughing heartily. Desmond was shocked by Lester's sudden outburst, as it was quite uncharacteristic of him.

"What baseless conjecture!"

"No, he's right," the taguel responded monotonically.

"I mean, Brooks says quite a few strange things—" Lester paused, taken aback at Desmond's remark. "Wait, beg pardon?"

"It's true. Of course I can. Have you not noticed my ears?" Desmond lifted his ears up and shook them for emphasis.

"I know about your ears, Desmond, but that hardly explains—"

"Well, it's more of a 'mutual understanding,'" Desmond interrupted. "But I know what they are saying and they understand me as well. In fact, I've carried a few conversations with Ranofer since we've set out on this journey."

Lester's eyes widened in shock.

"You mean to say that you know what my horse is thinking? Simply remarkable! Tell me, what has she said to you? I must know!"

Desmond shook his finger at the newly-enthusiastic paladin mockingly.

"Uh-uh. What we have talked about is between the two of us."

Noticing the paladin's disappointment, Desmond continued, "But I will say that you have a very loyal companion. She's brave, following you around like this."

"Do you mean every word of this?"

"Of course I do," Desmond replied with a smile.

"I thank you, then," Lester replied with a grin of his own. "Ranofer's been a good friend of mine ever since she was born. She was the steed I was raised to ride, and the one that I will die on."

"I remember her telling me the same of you. I don't have any words to describe the bond you two have."

"Really? Has she?" The paladin patted the top of Ranofer's head comfortingly. "Thank you for staying with me this long, friend."

The horse whinnied in appreciation, causing Lester to beam brightly.

Recollecting his composure, he turned once again to Desmond.

"Tell me, what is it like being a taguel? I suppose it's quite unlike being a human."

Desmond's expression became downcast as he tilted his head towards the tawny horse's mane.

"You'd be right, Lester. But it isn't really the happiest existence around."

"Oh?" Lester replied, tilting his head to the side questioningly. "Why might that be? I'm afraid my knowledge on taguel lifestyle is rather… limited."

Desmond nodded in understanding before interlocking his fingers and closing his eyes.

"I can understand that. The outside world doesn't know much about us or our culture. I suppose I should start from the beginning, then."

"There are only two places for taguel to live these days. The first is in a traditional warren setting. They're quite few and far between, and you have to be born into them. For starters, there's a massive complex of caverns underneath the Ylisstol Fields, another underneath these Feroxian forests, and a third up in the far northern reaches of the Feroxian Mountains."

"These warrens," Lester interjected, "Just how large are they, exactly?"

"From what I've heard, they're absolutely massive. The Ylissean one, especially. If a human got lost in there, they'd probably never be able to return to the surface alive. But that's all word of mouth, mostly."

"The second place, though, is a human-taguel settlement up in the very northern expanses of Regna Ferox. So far isolated that very few of the East Feroxians even know about the place." That's where I grew up."

"A human and taguel joint settlement? Remarkable."

"It really was a great place to grow up, to be sure. Except for one thing…"

"What would that be?"

"Remember the far northern taguel warren I told you about earlier? That was the home of the Gray Claw."

"The Gray Claw?" Lester questioned, "I haven't exactly heard of them. Who are they?"

"They're kind of the taguel equivalent of the Sons of Naga, in a way; a group of purists, and violent ones at that."

"That doesn't seem… logical, I would say. Aren't all taguel mostly human? The last of the pure taguel died generations ago."

"That's exactly the problem," Desmond replied, thinking back to past traumatic events, "They still think themselves better than the other taguel. On top of that, they worshiped Greatmother Panne to an even greater extent than the rest of us, forgetting that she was allied with humans."

"Either way, they frequently raided our village, killing citizens and looting shops. Since we were peaceful people, our guard was very meager and often overrun by the Gray. We just didn't have the arms nor will to fight back. When we caught wind of an attack, we often evacuated the village and just let them have whatever of ours they wanted."

"My, that sounds absolutely terrible," Lester responded, his voice tinged with sadness, "I suppose I understand why you left, now."

Desmond shook his head, his ears dangling like loose streamers.

"That's not it. The village is still there, in better health than ever."

"Oh? Do tell."

"Of course," Desmond said, nodding.

"You're right that the Gray Claw had their way with our village and destroyed it. Several times, actually. But we always managed to rebuild before they came back."

"When I was younger—gods, I must have been only eleven years, then—the Gray had come again for another invasion and raiding. But this time, we hadn't heard of any plans and were unable to evacuate before they came. A lot of the villagers lost their lives that day, human and taguel alike. My parents were subject to the same fate."

Desmond paused as he recalled the event, a saddened visage overtaking his face. Lester smiled reassuringly at his friend, yet said nothing. Eventually, Desmond cleared his throat.

"But something happened that day that none of us expected in the least. As the Gray tore through the streets, someone that none of us had ever seen before appeared. His name was Roderik of Ferox, and he was a very big and _very angry_ East Feroxian."

"Eastern?" Lester asked, shock evident in his tone. "I can't say I've ever met a friendly East Feroxian in my life."

"He was a man who was above borders. He cared little for the name of his nation, rather the people inside it were his main concern. And since we lived in the east, he took it upon himself to protect us. He eventually became the one that taught me to fight."

"I remember him storming into the village with an air that disturbed even the Gray Claw taguel. That's when he began his attack. See, the reason you've probably never heard of the Gray Claw is because all of them are dead now."

Lester's eyes widened.

"You're saying that this one man killed _every last one of them_?"

"That he did," Lester confirmed, nodding. "At least, the large majority of them. I'm not sure how, exactly. It was like pain wasn't concerning to him. He cut through each and every one before a few of them had run off for the hills. After that, he told everyone who wished to protect their homeland to follow him to Coliseum East Ferox. That's where I learned to use an axe under his teachings."

"He taught us that strength didn't only lie in our beaststones. True strength stems from a pure mind and a powerful will."

"That's impressive. Very much so," Lester remarked. "If only I could meet this man. He sounds like an excellent tutor."

"He was," Desmond agreed. "He was more of a friend, actually, than a teacher. Marching into danger without a second thought, but rather a laugh as he threw caution to the wind. Around a year ago, we invaded straight into the heart of the Gray Claw's warren, finishing the last of them off."

"Was it overkill? Probably. But at the time, I just wanted to make them feel the same pain that we felt for all of those years. As we returned, though, Roderik was arrested by the guard and executed for dodging the military draft."

"And the world was robbed of an excellent man," Lester assured, "Most East Feroxians could stand to learn from his example."

"I agree, Lester. After his death, I left Ferox for Ylisse. That's when I met Brooks, of all people, who had just left his caravan. And once the two of us arrived in Ylisse, we met you and Samuel. You know the rest of the story."

The two were quiet for a moment, only the sound of trotting hooves and rustling branches permeated the expanse of dense pine forest.

"I have but one more question for you, Desmond. Is this why you don't use your beaststone anymore?"

"Anymore? I've never used it to begin with," Desmond confessed.

"Never?"

"Not once. By the time that the need arose for me to fight, Roderik had already shown me the ways of the axe."

"So what is it, then? From white I've heard, taguel are remarkably powerful in their beast forms."

Desmond searched through his bag momentarily before pulling out the purple stone in question. He held it in his hand, staring into it fearfully.

"You'd be right about that. I'm proud of my heritage, Lester, but after seeing the destruction a beast taguel can bring upon others, its power simply isn't for me." With that, the taguel stowed the stone, making sure that it ended up in the very bottom of his bag.

"I… hadn't thought of that," Lester said apologetically. "Forgive me."

"No offense taken. But should we ever need to fight, you'll see that I don't need a beaststone in combat. I'm more than capable with the axe Roderik gave to me."

Desmond smiled, and unsheathed his beautiful steel-edged iron axe, the blade gleaming in a small ray of orange-tinged sunlight striking through the ever-thickening barrier of clouds.

* * *

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Samuel asked, his voice tinged with concern. Brooks had given the priest the spellbook, which he held in his hands much like a squire would hold his master's unwieldy sword.

"Yeah, sure," Brooks replied nonchalantly. "What's the worst that could happen?"

Brooks took the book from Samuel and opened it to the first page. He pointed at the image portrayed on the paper.

"This is Fire. It should be the easiest for a beginner to cast. It's the most basic form that anima magic can take. Why not give it a try?"

Samuel scratched his beard, replying hesitantly, "Alright, I suppose. If you're sure…"

"It's pretty simple, really. It's all in drawing the magic from out of the book."

Brooks lightly brushed the surface of the paper with his fingertip.

"See, the magic is mostly inside the paper. It's true that you need to have an innate magical proficiency to even think about spellcasting, but you just need to understand how powerful the spell lurking inside the page is."

Samuel's eyes darted around nervously.

"A-alright. I'm going to give it a shot."

Brooks clapped his hands once.

"Perfect! I'll be here if things get out of control. But don't be discouraged if you can't do it yet, since it takes a lot of work and patience to be mage."

"So what should I be doing now?" Samuel asked nervously.

"It's kind of like reaching into a bucket of water to pull out a rock. That's how I've come to think of it, at least. If you do it right, the 'rock' should appear in your hand as magical energy. Just try to picture that in your head for now."

The priest nodded in acknowledgement. Closing his eyes, he imagined that a small bucket lay before him. Inside, was a smooth, red pebble resting comfortably at the bottom of the smooth water. A fiery energy danced within the stone, causing the water to glow a soft orange color.

Reaching for the pebble, Samuel felt his hand grow cold as it broke the surface of the water. He grasped the pebble in his hand, lifting it triumphantly out of the water. As it broke the surface, a terrible burning sensation imbued his hand.

"Gah! Hot!"

The priest unconsciously threw the pebble down at the ground below him. As Samuel slowly opened his eyes, he realized exactly what he had done.

The floor of the wagon had caught fire.

"Dammit! Hand me that!" Brooks commanded, uncharacteristically serious. He quickly flipped through the pages until it landed on the page detailing the wind spell. Channeling briefly, he shot a powerful gust of wind at the blaze, snuffing it out quickly.

Brooks stared at the scorch mark, wondering how exactly to explain the burn to the friend he had lent it from.

"You two okay back—good gods, where did all that smoke come from, Brooks?" Lester had halted his conversation with Desmond, and was staring unassuredly at the cart.

"Yeah, we're fine!" Brooks said, covering for his friend. "Accidentally shot a fireball. Magical experiment, my bad."

"You're paying for the damages, Brooks, not me. Remember that." Lester's glare was that of deadly seriousness.

The mage scratched the back of his head, laughing awkwardly. Lester turned away from the scene, continuing to converse with the taguel.

The silence was deafening in the cart for a moment, before Brooks spoke up to break the awkwardness.

"Well… on the bright side, you got it on your first time!" Brooks said, turning to the melancholy priest and grinning nervously.

"Gods damn it. I expected something like this to happen," Samuel grumbled.

Brooks comfortingly wrapped his arm around Samuel's shoulders.

"Cheer up, pal. Not many can claim to have drawn out a Fire spell perfectly on their first try. It was my fault, though, that the wagon got burned. I thought a trial by _fire_ would be fitting."

Brooks grinned sheepishly as Samuel furled his brow.

"I get it, I get it!" Brooks continued, "Next time, we'll start you on Wind. But I believe you have a promising future as a sage!"

"I think I'll stick to healing for now, thanks," the priest sighed.

"Suit yourself. If you change your mind, you know where to find me."

* * *

Sneaking one last glance at the smoke filled cart, Lester met his gaze with Desmond's once again.

"Does he usually do that?" Lester asked. "You know him better than I do, after all."

"That I do," Desmond agreed, nodding his head and recalling how he had met the zany mage from his travels from East Ferox to Ylisse. "But Brooks is very careful with his magic. He may not look that way on the outside, but I can attest to it. Samuel was the one who cast Fire, actually."

"Samuel? Impossible!"

"Once again, you underestimate the power of my ears." Desmond lifted his ears up to make a perfect horizontal line to demonstrate his point.

"I heard their entire conversation. By the looks of it, Samuel wants to learn magic."

"Really? He doesn't seem like the type of person to be interested in actual combat. Probably from his sheltered childhood."

"Sheltered?" Desmond dropped his ears, causing them to strike his bare shoulders with an audible thump.

"From what he told me, he went straight from school to priesthood before I found him. I don't think he's actually seen combat yet."

Desmond didn't respond. The horse-drawn wagon clattered on in silence for several minutes, the wind picking up to an audible gale and the sparse snowflakes beginning to fall became much more frequent and dense.

The snow produced an eerie quiet, enhanced by the near-setting sun. It seemed that all sound had been drained from their surroundings besides the constant clatter of the horses and the cart wheels. The clouds above seemed to be lowering from above, foretelling the arrival of heavy fog. A voice spoke calmly to Desmond, snapping him out of his calm meditation.

"O-oh, sorry, Lester. I didn't hear what you said."

"My apologies. I didn't notice how relaxed you were," Lester cleared his throat, and continued, "Anyway, I have been pondering about what you've told me earlier."

"Oh?"

"Your story reminds me of my own. I cannot shake the thought of how similar the two are."

"So you've been sidling up to some fine taguel women, then," Desmond jeered with a laugh. "I knew you had it in you, Lester!"

"Yes, that's exactly—I beg your pardon?!" Lester cried, taken aback by Desmond's jest.

"Nothing, nothing... " Desmond dismissed, still laughing furiously. "Anyhow, tell me more. You listened to me rant, so the least I can do is listen to your story."

"Here I am, about to pour the entirety of my heart out to you… ah, forget it. I assure you, there are no taguel women to speak of in my story."

"How disappointing…"

Lester couldn't decide to make a face of disgust or join in with the taguel's jeering, eventually deciding to settle with a drawn out sigh.

"_Ahem_, let me begin with my story, please. You recall the time I told the three of you—"

"Hate to interrupt you guys, but how much longer to we have to go before we get to Stormguard?"

Brooks' sudden comment caused the paladin to groan loudly.

"You know what? We can discuss this matter later, Desmond."

"But I was getting so excited?" Desmond's statement sounded more like a question than an answer, adding to Lester's vexation.

"No more!" the paladin interrupted loudly, "I will not have it!"

"Hello? Are you two there? I can't see through this fog so—"

"Yes! Yes, yes yes! We should be arriving at the border pass momentarily," Lester shouted, frustration almost boiling over.

"Is that it over there?" Desmond asked, gesturing forward to a large, dark bricked structure that towered over the massive pine trees. Its high walls were a sight to behold, massive enough to conceal half of the horizon if not for the heavy cloud coverage plaguing the area.

The clouds above had gathered forebodingly thick above, the snowfall precipitating at a steady rate. The setting sun was concealed completely, providing an atmosphere comparable to that of the dead of night. The gate watchers had lit signal and guidance lanterns to compensate for the lack of natural sunlight.

"Ah, there it is," Brooks commented. "What with the cloud coverage and all—"

Brooks paused abruptly, concern evident in his eyes.

"Wait a moment… something is not right here."

Samuel joined the mage at the helm of the cart, poking his head outside the cloth wagon covering.

"Something's not right…?" the white-robed priest inquired. "It looks okay to me."

"No, Samuel. I've gone through this border pass several times. More than several, actually."

Brooks' jovial personality was lost as deadly graveness replaced it.

"I may not have been to Stormguard or the Homely Hearth specifically, or even to the Stormguard area, but this gate is like a second home to me. And not _once_ have I recalled the portcullis being shut."

Brooks was correct; the gate was definitely fastened shut. The iron plating made the border appear more like a prison than anything else. Through the fog, people were moving about atop the gate and around it hurriedly.

"That can be explained logically," Lester rationalized, "Stormguard was just under siege. The Western soldiers are probably just on high alert from that."

"Still, I don't like the situation in the least. At least have weapons at the ready, just in case. This just doesn't seem right."

"Alright, fair enough. We'll be prepared for anything," Lester responded reassuringly. "If they attack, we will be on guard."

The cart rattled on, approaching the devastatingly bleak structure. Silence permeated the group of four, as the comparatively tiny cart approached the goliath wall. As the cart stopped, an armored guard, very much Feroxian, approached the halted wagon.

"Oi, you lot! What business have you in Ferox?"

* * *

"Khan, I've brought you something," Aniam's commander pulled his head through the simple gray tent flaps that marked the Khan's personal tent.

The East Feroxian military had set up camp only one day's journey from the Western Arena, just in time for night to set in and the snowfall to pick up. For Feroxians, the weather at around this time of year was remarkably average.

The Khan sat upon his wooden seat, looking something quite like a throne. His interest piqued at his commander's call.

"Lambert? What've you got?"

Entering the Khan's temporary abode, Lambert tossed a black bottle into the air towards Aniam. He deftly caught it before turning the label side up.

"East Feroxian Pale? They still have that here?" the Khan questioned, confused. As far as his memory went, Westerners had stopped drinking anything that was traditionally Eastern.

"Apparently," Lambert remarked, pulling up a wooden chair that had been positioned in front of a table holding nothing save a single Feroxian map.

"The town that my battalion passed earlier on the way to Stormguard had some Eastern sympathisers running a tavern, so I picked that up on my way. There's a couple more where that came from, too."

"You know me well, commander. No wonder I gave you that promotion before we started our conquest. You put in the best of work in _and_ off the battlefield!" The Khan heartily laughed at his own joke, his commander sharing in his emotion.

"I do try my very best, sir. Anyway, how does the night find you?"

"It's cold. Just the way I like it. And you brought me my favorite brew, so I'm in a better mood than I have been in years!"

Lambert smiled, noticing his Khan's joy. He had become almost a brother to him since the murder of his father.

"Glad to hear it, sir. But there was another reason that I came to seek you, though," the commander's expression became noticeably more difficult to read, as if he was unsure how to deliver the information to his superior.

Aniam noticed this, and leaned in closer towards his commander and friend.

"What is it, Lambert? I'm all ears." His tone became quite sympathetic upon seeing his commander's troubling expression.

"It's just… one of our privates who was present at the siege of Stormguard has told me he has some very troubling news from the battle. He hasn't told me yet since he keeps saying that he can only give this information to you specifically," Lambert said, before exhaling slightly louder than normal.

"He seems quite rattled too, sir. Shall I go fetch him?"

The Khan's eyes narrowed, unsure quite how to handle the situation. The only thing he hated more than his Western adversaries was discontent among his soldiers. Aniam closed his eyes, nodding.

"I see. Bring him to me, please."

Lambert stood from his chair before snapping a slightly awkward salute. As he approached the tent flap, Aniam piped up from behind him.

"Lambert… forget the salute. We are friends, and almost equals in my eyes. It is a formality that you nor anyone else of your rank needs to do."

The commander stopped in his tracks, holding the tent open slightly. Without turning his head to hide his surprised expression, he bowed his head low.

"I… okay. I understand. Pardon me for a moment."

With that, Lambert exited the tent and into the snowstorm outside.

The Khan slumped into his wooden throne, his good mood well and gone. What could happened at Stormguard? The city had been destroyed, and his target was not recovered, but otherwise the mission was a success.

Or was it?

Before he could theorize too much, the front of the tent reopened. A young man, who could not have been more than seventeen years of age, with Lambert corralling him into Aniam's presence. He was dressed in a simple red private's uniform, with an iron sword strapped to his side. The private was visibly shaking, and his eyes darted around the tent nervously.

Aniam stood from his throne, adopting an expression of worry.

"You there, are you alright? May I have your rank and squadron?"

The private began to stammer something that neither Lambert nor Aniam could make out. He cleared his throat, still shaking all the while, before saluting smartly.

"S-s-s-sir! P-private Michael, s-sir! U-under Captain Z-Zachariah!"

Private Michael began to tense up as the Khan approached, bottle of Pale in hand.

"Private Michael, I'm going to need you to calm down. I've heard that you have information that I need to know."

"Ye-yes, sir! I will attempt to calm down, sir!"

As he spoke he still held his salute, not daring to drop it in front of his Khan.

"For gods sake, son, drop the damned salute and drink this bottle from top to bottom."

"B-but!"

"That's a goddamn order! Cut the salute, and drink the alcohol!"

The private's eyes widened in shock, not understanding exactly why his superior had ordered him to a casual position and to drink on duty without proper cause. Nevertheless, he did as he was commanded, tilting the base of the black bottle upwards until its entire content had disappeared down his throat.

A rosy blush began to appear across the private's face, his rapid breathing beginning to slow down as the alcohol began to dull his nerves. Eventually, the kick from the powerful beverage knocked back Michael into a chair that Lambert surreptitiously had pulled up for the panicked private as he drank.

Eventually, Michael spoke, "Thhanks sir, I neeeeded that." As the alcohol took hold of his mind, his words began to slur, his eyes comically glazed over.

"_What a lightweight_," the Khan muttered under his breath before coughing into his hand. "Now Michael, I have been informed that you have extremely important information regarding the events at Stormguard. I hate to push you, but it is valuable for me to know what you know."

The private blinked before being drawn away from his alcohol-induced reverie, almost seeming to sober up instantly.

"Oh, yes, that," he whispered, a frown appearing on his face. He hiccuped once before continuing. "I can tell you that. But I don't think you'll like what I have to say."

"All the more reason for you to tell me, son." Aniam grinned in an almost fatherlike manner at Michael, coaxing him on.

Eventually he surrendered with a quiet, "Okay."

The private closed his eyes to gather his thoughts. Immediately after they opened, he began.

"My battalion approached Stormguard in the dead of night, but well rested enough to fight proudly. Captain Zachariah had gone all out for his assault on the town, I think because it was the first important mission you assigned him to."

Aniam nodded in agreement, before gesturing for him to continue with the wave of his pointer and middle finger to the side, as if turning pages in a battle report.

"He had brought more pitch throwers, cannons, and ballistae than I had ever seen in my life. We must have brought well over one hundred siege weapons. Anyway, we began our assault and people started running from the fires."

The private's breath began to quiver as he continued to more delicate topics.

"The captain ordered some of the better equipped soldiers to take down the town guard. For us privates, he ordered us to round up the townspeople. And then he…"

Michael stopped, unable to continue. Noticing this, Aniam spoke, his tone hurried.

"And then he what, Michael? May I remind you that this information is extremely important?"

"I know, I know, sorry, sir. He… he ordered us to kill each and every one of them. I knew that was against Feroxi honor, but the captain said he'd have our heads if we didn't follow his order. So I did. I _killed_ them all. Innocent and defenseless women, children, and men. Some were holding babies. And then he told us to burn the bodies and bury them in the snow before your arrival."

Michael was visibly shaking, not daring to look up at his Khan. Aniam's expression became grim, his voice visibly attempting to conceal rage.

"I understand. You are not at fault, Michael, and neither are the others who spilled innocent blood yesterday. Return to your barracks, private. I will handle the situation."

Private Michael lifted his gaze to see Aniam's expression, surprisingly one of understanding, feigned or no. Bowing slightly, he thanked the Khan and hurried as quickly as he could from the simple gray tent.

At the private's departure, Khan Aniam allowed his rage to boil over into his expression and his speech, deadly venom tinging his words.

"Bring me the captain, Lambert. And bring me my axe."

* * *

Nothing but the incandescent light of candles illuminated the simple gray hovel that was Khan Aniam's personal quarters as Captain Zachariah pushed through the thin flaps that separated the warm interior from the frigid nighttime Feroxi air. The snow had finally died down as the night waxed into stages of midnight, yet the wind still howled and the arctic chill permeated the vulnerable Eastern camp.

Zachariah shivered as the change in temperature became more apparent. He kicked the packed snow off of his plated war boots before continuing down the admonishingly long red carpet to the wooden throne that the Khan of the East sat upon. Zachariah's expression became similarly wooden as he noticed his superior's demeanor.

The captain had never seen his lord with anything worse than a neutral expression. Anger was an emotion that he did not believe Khan Aniam possessed. Yet there it was, written across his face like a hastily scrawled warning sign at the entrance of a darkened swamp.

"_Run, now,_" his mind warned him, yet his feet did not permit the movement. He knew he must face the wrath of the Khan, but for what?

Aniam shifted his grip on the axe he held, the weapon's head pointed into the ground. Yet he did not speak, and simply waited for the captain to make the first move.

"You called upon me, sir?" Zachariah noticed his voice waver slightly as he saluted, and hoped his lord had not detected his sign of weakness.

Unwavering, the Khan gave a neutral reply without showing any change in facial expression.

"That I did, captain."

Zachariah could taste the venom on his lips. Whatever Khan Aniam wanted with him, he knew it was not going to end well.

"Drop to your knees, scum," Aniam ordered, his anger threatening to boil over as he stood from his simple throne. The captain obeyed as commanded, not daring to oppose his leader.

"Forgive my question, Khan, but what is this—"

"You will know when I will it, vermin. Now tell me; what were the orders that I gave you when I tasked you with the destruction of Stormguard?"

"I… you said you wanted the city laid to waste, the guards dismantled, and—"

"The axe. What ended up happening to that axe I asked you to find for me?"

Zachariah's breathing became labored. He knew what this about, now. His failure to return the axe his lord requested…

"Forgive me, my Khan, but neither the axe nor its wielder were discovered."

"Ah, so neither were discovered, then?" the Khan asked sarcastically. "I do not like your word choice, but that explains plenty, actually. And that is not why I have brought you here, either."

"It—"

"Of course not. I'll find Colin eventually and pry Hauteclere from his cold and dead hands. Wherever he may be, my armies will find him."

"Then what—"

"SILENCE!" the Khan's voice rang out in anger. Birds ceased their chirping, the gale winds died down outside, and somewhere a man stopped midway between casting a Fire spell to light his campfire.

"You will speak no more until I order it specifically. Am I clear?"

The question elicited no response from the captain.

"Excellent. I am glad you understand. The reason you are kneeling pathetically under me is not because of what you were unable to do, but rather what you _did_ do."

Aniam turned his back on the kneeling captain, tilting his chin towards the tent ceiling.

"Retell the events of the siege in your own words."

Zachariah coughed, shaking madly.

"W-we brought the siege weapons to the town as you commanded. I ordered the first round of cannonfire, rousing the guards. We cut them down easily. Afterwards, I sent some of my more experienced soldiers into the town while I ordered the privates—oh gods…"

Realization dawned upon the captain. He knew what Khan Aniam wanted with him.

"The privates…?"

"I ordered the privates to cut down the townsfolk," Zachariah finished his earlier sentence hastily before dropping his head low. The Khan turned around once again.

"Do you recall what the people you ordered the privates to murder were holding, captain?" Aniam's voice was unnaturally calm as he addressed the captain.

"N-nothing, sir, save for—"

"CHILDREN! Goddamn _INFANTS_, at that! And then you ordered the privates to _burn_ them all before I arrived at the battlefield! You didn't even grant them a proper burial!"

The captain did not respond. His shaking intensified at the sound of his admired leader's fury.

"You forget even the most basic of Feroxi rules of war!" The Khan positioned his axe offensively, taking long and heavy strides towards the kneeling captain.

"_Honor,_ Zachariah. No matter how dire the war, no matter _who _the enemy is on the other side of the field… you must _never_ relinquish it."

The Khan stood near the fallen captain, towering over his crumpled visage like a colossus over men.

"And what has been reported to me was the most _disgusting_ abandon of basic honor and rights of the enemy that I have ever had the misfortune of witnessing."

Still pointing his weapon downwards, he thrust the pointed tip of his silver war axe into the wrist of the captain, rousing an agonizing cry of pain.

"They're… Western," the captain managed to sputter, "They… deserve to die…"

"I do not CARE, captain! They may have been responsible for the split of our homeland…" as he spoke, Aniam twisted the axe in the captain's wrist, causing Zachariah's cries of torment to escalate.

"…and they are right to be hated, but that does not remove their basic human right to honor!"

Aniam thrust the axe downward with as much force as he could muster, severing the captain's left hand. As he cried out, crimson blood began to pour rapidly out of the open wound, staining the carpeted floor.

"And for your transgression," the Khan spoke softly, his anger petering out, "you lose your left hand. Count yourself lucky that I did not take your sword arm."

Zachariah stifled his cries, his teeth clenching to hold back the pain.

"If I had taken your other hand, you'd be worse than dead. But I am generous, so you will keep your battalion, rank, and ability to fight. But if you dare fail me again…"

Aniam lowered his face until it was mere inches from Zachariah's, his gaze narrowing as he stared into his captain's fearful eyes.

"You will lose your right hand, and after that your head. Do I make myself _explicitly_ clear, captain?"

Zachariah only managed to nod, his teeth still clenched in pain.

"I will hear you say it, Zachariah."

"Sir… yes, sir," he responded, managing to fight back the cries of suffering he harbored at the back of his throat.

"Excellent. Now go find yourself a healer, captain. You're spilling your filth all over my floor."

* * *

**Roster**

**No.001 Nila**

A resident of Plegia and descendent of one of the famous time travelers of Ylissean past, Morgan. Although weakly, he carries the same blood of Grima used to revive the fell dragon generations ago. He was a tactician for the Plegian Mercenaries in the past, who eventually dissolved under his leadership.

The most likely fall asleep while reading.

Born on December 20th, age 24.

Class: Tactician (**Sword**|**Anima**, **Dark** from Shadowgift)

**No.002 Matthew**

The leader of a group of fighters known as the Justice Brigade, who prefers the name Matt. He brought the group together after he and Hunter fled a devastated city in Western Ferox, one of the first Western settlements destroyed by the marauding nation. His confident personality is what the Justice Brigade's foundation stands upon, yet he harbors doubts of his own sometimes.

The one who slouches the most.

Born on January 2nd, age 21.

Class: Wyvern Lord (**Axe**|Lance)

**No.003 Hunter**

A Feroxian duelist with a deadly mastery of swordplay. He has lived in not one, but two villages that have been razed by magic-wielding bandits or conquesting Easterners. The loss of his sister invoked a keen sense of justice within him and a fear of magic and fire.

The least fond of parlor tricks.

Born on January 25th, age 22.

Class: Swordmaster (**Sword**)

**No.004 Chastity**

An Ylissean Falcon Knight—who prefers to go by Chast—with pale white skin and red eyes. Her albinism runs in the family, being shared with her father. She had high hopes of joining the Ylissean cavalry, yet was advised to pursue a separate line of work by her father. She instead took up work as a mercenary, and eventually met Matt after he saved her life.

The one with the scariest glare.

Born on October 29th, age 17.

Class: Falcon Knight (**Lance**|**Staff**)

**No.005 Marius**

A peculiar fighter hailing from Stormguard. Initially striving to be a scholar, Marius studied magic diligently throughout his childhood. However, he shifted priorities when bands of rogue dark mages attacked the settlement. With his interesting combination of swords, Anima, and throwing axes, he joined the enthusiastic Justice Brigade to put his skills to the test.

The one with the worst sense of humor.

Born on April 1st, age 20.

Class: Dread Fighter (**Sword**|**Axe**|**Anima**)

**No.006 Valkus**

A Valmese quartermaster who tolerates nonsense of no kind. After a false claim of fraudulence, Valkus chartered a ship to the Ylissean continent. She joined the Justice Brigade after falling to them in a battle to mete out justice for herself and others. How this beauty's personality meshes with the jovial brigade is a mystery.

The most likely to enjoy taking inventory.

Born on March 25th, age 28.

Class: General (**Lance**|Axe)

**No.007 ?**

…

***New* No.008 Lester**

A seasoned veteran and guardian of Ylissean royalty. Lester began his training for knighthood at the young age of seven. He failed to protect the lord he was sworn to from a powerful East Feroxian warlord. He formed the Ylissean Vanguard in an attempt right the mistakes that he brought upon the halidom.

The longest bather.

Born on May 15th, age 20.

Class: Paladin (**Sword**|**Lance**)

***New* No.009 Desmond**

One of the rare taguel who bounced back from the brink of extinction. Desmond is one of the few taguel who have refused to their cultural roots of warren life. He trained under a man who fought against the Gray Claw, a taguel purist society that threatened his home. He refuses to use his beaststone.

The one with the biggest rock collection.

Born on August 8th, age 19.

Class: Taguel Fighter (**Axe**|Beaststone)

***New* No.010 Samuel**

An Ylissean priest of minor nobility. His rigorous education led him to priesthood, where he trained in the Holy Church of Naga to heal his allies. After being denied entry to the Ylissean military, he was recruited by Lester to heal for the Ylissean Vanguard.

The best at insulting others.

Born on July 14th, age 21.

Class: Scholar (**Staff**|**Anima**)

***New* No.011 Brooks**

A mage of Ylissean background that has traveled the world across. With his traveling mage caravan, he saw the shores of Valm, the peaks of both Feroxes, the sands of Plegia, and the rolling hills of Ylisse. Longing to be greater than an entertainer, he left his caravan to create his own adventures.

The one with dirt on absolutely everyone.

Born on March 10th, age 25.

Class: Mage (**Anima**)

**No.012 ?**

…


	5. 2: Guardians of Regna Ferox

"Oi, you lot! What business have you in Ferox?"

A female guard cloaked in azure Western battlegear, spear at the ready, approached the cart. Restlessness danced in her gray eyes, barely visible from underneath the blue scarf adorning her neck and the curved helmet atop her head. From her battlegear, it was simple to tell that she was a higher-ranking Feroxian light-armored knight.

Desmond sniffed the air, something not sitting quite right with him. The air tasted foul, akin to a large city rather than the middle of the wilderness. The faint smell of iron wafted through the air, but not the same kind as used for weaponry.

The lightweight knight stood in front of Lester's mount, gold-adorned steel spear attached by chain pointing at him menacingly.

"Well? Spit it out, Ylissean. I have six archers, bows at the ready. Don't even think for a moment about doing something shady."

Desmond opened his mouth to say something, but fortunately Lester, ever interpersonally skilled, held his hand up reassuringly.

"Peace, milady. We are here to simply cross the border." Lester's face maintained a calm coolness as he spoke, yielding no emotion to the Feroxian guard.

"Don't think you're so special," she spat, "You're not the only ones who've said that today. Had a cart of Ylisseans go through here earlier this evening, and they turned out to be Sons of Naga cultists. How can we expect different from you?"

The female knight turned her attention to the front of the wagon itself, Brooks and Samuel's heads poked through the canvas curtain.

"Look, we've got two more Ylissean dogs in back," she jeered, smirking cockily at Lester, "This whole cart stinks of cultists."

Unexpectedly, Brooks began to glare daggers at the soldier.

"Lady, I may be Ylissean, but I'm—"

"Can it, mage," she interrupted, "I've heard it too many times before."

Lester sighed and shook his head, almost disapprovingly.

"No, madame. We are not cultists. The four of us are on a relief mission for West Ferox sent straight from Exalt Spes himself. I implore you to open the gate."

Spitting on Ranofer's hooves, the Feroxian demanded, "Your claims are less than the dirt I walk on. I don't suppose you have any proof of that, paladin?"

"Of course," Lester returned, a faux smile playing across his face, "If you'll pardon me a moment."

Lester unhooked the clasp of Ranofer's saddlebag and fished out a sealed scroll of parchment. He held it in the knight's direction as she approached and tore the document out of the paladin's hand. Hastily ripping the red seal off of the front, she unraveled the missive and began to skim through its contents.

"Relief agents to Arena Ferox, huh? Suppose you've got me beat."

She turned back to the gate where her fellow gatewatchers were positioned, yelling a command to let the party through.

"'Pologies for the confusion," she said with a sheepish grin. "My boys are opening the gate now. Feel free to pass on through."

Desmond narrowed his gaze at the soldier as Lester expressed his thanks for the rite of passage. Something didn't seem quite right with the whole situation. Near the wall, he noticed axe-armed soldiers shifting nervously, his ears picking up a range of muddled whispers.

As Lester commanded Ranofer and the tawny horse Desmond was seated upon forward, a hooded Feroxian jogged up to the knight who was several paces ahead of them, well out of earshot for the humans. He whispered something nigh-unintelligible to her, while she spoke back in a voice loud enough that Desmond could pick up.

"Western sympathisers. Head back up to the battlements and have your archers fire on my command."

The hooded Feroxian saluted and sprinted back towards the gatehouse as Desmond's pulse began to race.

"Lester," Desmond murmured, attempting to keep his panic under control.

"Yes, Desmond?"

"I overheard the soldier. They're Easterners."

"What? That simply cannot be so!" the paladin spoke in disbelief. Calming himself down, he added, "How can you be sure?"

"My ears," Desmond smirked, holding them towards the paladin, "Have you forgotten about them already? The archers on the battlements are preparing for a surprise strike."

As if to insinuate his point, the hooded Feroxian man from earlier appeared high upon the wall, almost out of sight in the dense fog. He muttered something to one archer before descending down a set of unknown steps while the first archer passed on his message. Lester pondered this for a moment, then continued.

"Right. I believe you, Desmond, but we cannot simply turn around. There is no other way to get into Feroxian territory, and there are people on the other side that need our help. That girl the mage at the tavern mentioned earlier comes to mind."

"Well then, what should we do? You've planned for battle before, right?"

Lester glanced side to side quickly, racking his brain for a solution.

"Well, I'm no Robin, but I'll do everything in my power to make sure we walk away from here."

He turned to the front of the cart, Samuel and Brooks still gazing out with expressions of concern.

"Samuel, Brooks, we have a situation on our hands. This gate is supposedly an Eastern trap. As soon as you hear the female guard say _anything_, jump out the back and prepare for battle."

The two robed men nodded, withdrawing into the wagon. Desmond turned to the wagon, noticing Brooks scribbling something down on a loose sheet of paper. He handed it to Samuel.

"If you're cornered, use this. It's a Wind spell," the mage said in a low voice.

Samuel took the page, albeit hesitantly, and nodded at Brooks.

"Desmond," Lester commanded, jarring the taguel's attention back towards the paladin, "As soon as you hear the female soldier speak, chop the trace attached to Ranofer's saddle. We may have to abandon yours if we're to find a desirable position for battle."

He nodded, and placed a hand on the leather hilt of his steel-edged iron axe, the final memento from his departed mentor and friend.

– – –

The air pressure around the four companions seemed to increase dramatically as Lester and Desmond towed the long, canvas-covered wagon towards the gate. Desmond found his breath growing short. The guards around them seemed to slink through the fog with evil, glowing eyes before disappearing into the blackness. The wrought-black iron bars of the portcullis rose with a foreboding creak, the dark-bricked, eerie structure of the border doing little to contract from the severity of the situation.

The wind, once howling, had tapered off completely—the air was completely dead, the fog thick enough to make the lanterns nothing more than blurry splotches of light in an endless void of darkness, the sun having only just fully set.

Desmond gripped the hilt of his axe tightly, the skin of his heavily hair-covered knuckles whitening. He snuck a glance backwards, revealing that Samuel and Brooks were positioned at the end of the cart, ready to spring at a moment's notice. He couldn't see their expressions, but he assumed that they had fear written all over their faces.

It wasn't long until a heavy silence permeated the gateway, not even one that Desmond's superior ears could detect any noise through. The portcullis had risen completely, the cart positioned directly beneath the raised iron bars. The Feroxian soldiers had completely disappeared, the light from the top of the battlements not strong enough to reveal the position of the archers that were surely awaiting them.

"Loose!"

The shout of a distinctly feminine voice from a large distance up the pathway into Feroxian territory permeated the silent air. Immediately after, the quick drawing of bowstrings and the immediate _twang_ of the release signaled the beginning of the ambush.

"Desmond! The trace!" Lester's voice rang out over the sound of four arrows tearing through the canvas of the cart. Desmond raised his axe over his head, and brought it down on the leather strap connecting Ranofer's saddle to the drawn cart. It broke with a clean snap, the gilded horse immediately rearing up and charging to the left towards the massive wall of the gate.

Desmond half jumped, half fell off of the tawny horse he was riding on, who had begun to panic as it was still trapped by the trace connecting it to the cart. A misfired arrow from above, whistling on the wind, pierced directly through the mare's skull, killing it instantly. It fell to the ground with a limp thud.

"Brooks, get those archers shut down!" Lester shouted, taking hold of command, "Desmond and I will handle the ground infantry!"

Desmond couldn't tell if Brooks had nodded in agreement, but he soon heard blasts of fire striking the battlements above. Brooks had at least two archers safely pinned down, but there were more hiding in the shadows on the other side.

As Desmond searched for an opening against the archers above, he and Lester still heavily pinned down by constant arrow fire, a small flame was alit atop the battlements before being tossed down into the passageway the four were battling in. A small torch fell from above, landing atop the canvas roof of the cart. Taking a chance, Desmond reached for the sole hand axe strapped to his belt, lobbing it towards the battlement. Immediately after, an archer robed in blue West Feroxian gear fell to the ground with a sickening crash.

Turning back towards the cart, Desmond noticed that the fire from the torch had spread quite quickly, the entire roof burning intensely. Samuel leaped out of the back of it, clutching something in his white-robed arms. He ran up to Brooks, handing him something as he took cover behind the burning cart. All the while, the sound of a man screaming in pain rang out over the battlefield, affirming that the mage landed a direct hit on one of the archers. He turned, and rushed up to Desmond, waiting for a clear opening to join Lester.

"Here," Samuel said, handing him liquid stored in a small, brown vial. "A vulnerary, just in case you get hurt while I'm helping Brooks."

Desmond nodded, before rushing off towards the sounds of battle on the other side of the gate.

* * *

Gripping his red-gemmed, wooden Heal staff tightly, Samuel poked his head out from behind the blazing conestoga wagon, intently watching as Brooks engaged in a firefight with an archer positioned atop the battlements and shrouded in heavy fog. Every burst of fire shot from Brooks' outstretched hand cut through the veil of haze, revealing the position of a sole archer atop the wall. For each blast of fire that opened a hole in the clouds, the archer returned one shot directly down the center of the tear. Brooks nimbly dodged each one, the arrows lining a path in the dirt in accordance with Brooks' movements.

The priest snuck a glance at the page that Brooks had written for him earlier.

_"Wind,_" he thought, studying the intricate design, _"Should I…?"_

Looking down the gate's pathway, Samuel could recognize the silhouettes of Lester and Desmond tackling a large amount of cavaliers and soldiers, but his gaze was wrought back towards the dark-robed mage as he heard the sound of an arrow piercing flesh. Samuel caught a glance of the arrow protruding from Brooks' left shoulder as he stumbled back from the blow. The mage retreated towards the cart, Samuel rushing out to meet the mage.

Samuel pulled the arrow from Brooks' shoulder, causing him to let out a sharp cry of pain and his blood to cascade rapidly from the wound. The priest raised his staff, a soft, soothing green light descending upon Brooks, whose wound promptly closed. He rubbed it, the pain obviously still there.

"I'm going to need your help if we're going to take down that archer," Brooks ordered, pointing towards the concealed battlements, "That wind spell is our only hope of getting out of here."

"Do you not remember what happened last time I used magic? I—"

"Of course I do!" the mage interrupted, "You burned the cart. As you can see now, that's the least of our worries."

The fire consuming the cart had been reduced to a smoulder, the vehicle looking irreparable under any circumstances.

"Besides, the worst you can do is hurt someone, and right now, that's exactly what we need."

As if to cut their conversation short, the archer atop the wall fired an arrow blindly into the fog, landing between the two robed men.

"Let's move, Samuel!"

The priest nodded, tightly holding the page. He rushed behind Brooks, attempting to recreate the magic he had used in the cart earlier that evening. He concentrated, the characteristic yellow runes of a successfully cast spell appearing around him. He could feel the energy coursing through him, and released it towards the battlements. A green, coalesced gas appeared in the circular runes in front of him, and flew towards the battlements while clearing the fog through its path. The green energy struck the archer, as if guided by the gods, and caused the archer to stumble. The bow he carried was cast away from his hands, landing some distance on the battlements behind him.

Brooks, noticing the opportunity, immediately turned the pages of his book further to the newest entry he had inked. He casted, and deadly fire appeared around the exposed archer before exploding outward violently.

The mage snickered, pride dancing in his eyes.

"Heheh… didn't expect for the Elfire to work. Brooks is moving up in the world!" Brooks pumped his fist in the air in victory.

Samuel smiled at his friend's celebration before turning his attention back to the magical page he was holding.

"_Perhaps I am good enough after all,"_ he pondered, capturing every detail of the intricate magical design.

Suddenly, Samuel's attention was captured by the sounds of voices and footsteps resonating from inside the wall.

"Brooks, I think we have company!" the priest shouted, Brooks' celebration promptly ending. From behind the southern end of the gate, two Feroxians dressed in archer garb along with two more in traditional myrmidon gear rushed towards the sounds of battle, swords and bows at the ready. Samuel held his Heal staff defensively in both hands with the Wind page wrapped around the wooden hilt in his left hand. He was ready.

* * *

Desmond reclaimed his hand axe from the chest archer who had fallen from the battlements. Blood still dripping from its wicked edge, he lobbed it towards the battlements a second time. This time, he heard a person atop the wall cry out in pain, but nobody fell from the dark-bricked structure. Chalking the final archer up as dead, he continued towards Lester, who was dueling a mounted Feroxian cavalier.

To his left, however, a Feroxian soldier was bravely standing his ground, iron spear at the ready. Changing his course, he rushed the soldier, axe at the ready. Quickly slicing forward, Desmond's blade met the iron plating of the soldier's buckler, who retaliated with a quick thrust of his spear. Desmond sidestepped, but was clipped on his right side, which began to bleed lightly.

Mentally blocking the pain, Desmond followed up with a vertical slash, cleanly splitting the soldier's wooden spear hilt as he attempted to raise the weapon to block the attack. Taking advantage of the opportunity, the taguel fighter wailed against the Feroxian's buckler, which eventually gave way under the might of Desmond's animalistic strength. Leaving the fallen soldier with a heavy strike to the center of his chest, he continued to pursue Lester, who had finished dealing with the Feroxian cavalier and another soldier who appeared to have been trampled over.

By the time Desmond had closed the distance between them, Lester had already engaged a second cavalier, dueling the inexperienced rider handily with his royal silver-inlaid sword. The lance-wielding rider could hardly keep up the paladin's strength, only having enough time to parry the strikes against him.

Sensing movement as he approached the two combatants, Desmond turned to his right where a bare-chested, Feroxian axe wielder had seemingly appeared from nowhere out of the dense fog. He rushed the taguel, his standard-issue iron axe hoisted above his head. The fighter leaped into the air, his blow meeting nothing but earth as Desmond quickly dodged to the side. Aiming for the small of his back, Desmond stuck, but missed as the Feroxian log-rolled away quickly.

Seizing the opportunity, the fighter went on the offensive, blow after blow parried by Desmond's axe. He didn't begin to falter, though, even increasing the frequency of his attacks. Desmond, almost being overwhelmed by the onslaught, thought quickly before using one of the breaks in between the fighter's blows to strike at the hands.

Blade meeting flesh, Desmond's axe caught the fingertips of the Feroxian, who dropped the weapon as he howled in pain. Recoiling, the fighter charged Desmond in a final gambit, tackling the taguel to the ground.

The Feroxian punched at Desmond's face desperately, but the taguel was quicker. After taking two hits to Desmond's eye and nose, a sharp knee to the center of the fighter's bare chest caught him off guard, knocking the wind out of the desperate Feroxian. Pressing his advantage, the taguel forcefully pushed the incapacitated fighter off of him, slicing at his exposed chest twice in quick succession. Confirming the Feroxian fighter dead, Desmond limped up to Lester, who had finished dealing with the inexperienced cavalier. Desmond cringed as he noticed the body was partially hidden, and completely crushed, under his fallen mount.

"Some fight, huh Lester?" Desmond laughed, his expression still pained from the beating the fighter had just given him. Lester did not respond, simply guiding Ranofer to stand at Desmond's side. The taguel rubbed his index finger under his nose, revealing the extent of his bleeding.

In a moment of insight, Desmond pulled the brown vial Samuel had given him earlier, which was fortunately still intact. He uncorked the vulnerary, downing the pale liquid in one mouthful, the soothing effects of the potion took effect immediately; the gash at his side closed slightly and his nose moved back into position with a sickening crack.

"Torchlight on the other side of the path," Lester said without pretense, pointing towards several small dots of light just barely visible through the fog.

"Three of them," he added, turning to meet Desmond's gaze, "Are you prepared for another skirmish, Desmond, or should we seek out Samuel's aid?"

Desmond shook his head, his ears flapping somewhat comically despite the situation.

"I'm ready for anything, pal. Just give the word."

* * *

Brooks jerked his head to his left side quickly, the stab from the Feroxian myrmidon sailing just to the left of his head. He casted a quick Wind spell in order to try and create some distance between the swordsman and himself, but the Feroxian seemed unfazed by the attack. His blade danced around him, barely missing Brooks each time he struck.

_"Could use a little help here, Samuel," _the mage thought, before quickly realizing that the priest was beset upon by two archers and yet another myrmidon, barely managing to keep himself out of harm's way.

The swordfighter set upon Brooks struck again, his blade digging into the earth where the mage was standing only mere moments ago. Brooks used the additional time granted to him to unsheath the small dagger strapped at his side before the myrmidon regained his composure and began to let blow after blow fall upon the mage.

This time, however, Brooks had the advantage of having a bladed weapon, and was able to parry one of the myrmidon's strikes handily. The Feroxian swordfighter must have not realized that Brooks had a dagger on him, because he hesitated long enough for Brooks to turn the pages of his spellbook to a random spell before casting.

Lines of magical electricity appeared in the iconic yellow spellcasting runes around Brooks, electrocuting the myrmidon as he wailed in pain. As he fell, a swift strike with Brooks' dagger to the back of his neck was enough to dispatch the swordfighter.

Brooks turned his attention back to Samuel, who was dancing around the pile of ash that was once the conestoga wagon. How he was ever going to explain that to his friend Jonathan, he may never know.

Pushing that unpleasant thought aside, he noticed that Samuel was able to defeat one of the archers all on his own, who was now slumped against the easternmost wall of the path underneath the portcullis, unconscious.

"_The crafty guy must have thrown him into the wall,"_ he thought, laughing slightly at the idea of an Eastern archer flying headfirst into a brick wall. Composing himself, Brooks flipped the pages of his book open to Fire, the field of magic he was most comfortable with. Focusing briefly, he shot the basic spell at the myrmidon striking at Samuel's wooden staff hilt.

Noticing the flames out of the corner of his eye, the myrmidon ducked swiftly before turning his attention to Brooks. He scowled angrily before charging at Brooks, sword at the ready.

"That's gonna cost ya!" Brooks shouted, magical power dancing at his fingertips. He reached both hands back before shoving them forcefully forwards with force, red-hot fire appearing around the approaching swordsman. He had no time to even scream before the flames consumed him, leaving nothing but a charred corpse in its wake.

Brooks closed his spellbook, panting heavily at the amount of energy he poured into his last Elfire spell. He wearily looked back at Samuel, who had blasted the second archer into the wall, joining the first. The mage limped tiredly up to the priest, clapping him proudly on the shoulder.

"See? I told you that you could do it!"

Samuel grinned, the beginnings of a prideful blush appearing on his cheeks.

"Heh. Perhaps using magic isn't so bad after all. I really do like wind spells."

"Oh? Then we'll have to keep up your training once we get back on the road… oh wait, damn."

Brooks looked sadly at the charred remains of the proud conestoga wagon they were riding in that very afternoon. Samuel smiled comfortingly.

"We'll find a way to get to Stormguard, Brooks. But for now, there's a fight that needs our attention. Lester and Desmond need our help."

The mage nodded sadly, glancing once more at the charred wreckage before following in Samuel's wake. The two rushed along the easternmost wall in the pathway underneath the portcullis, robes dancing in the newly-blowing wind.

* * *

A faint whistling sound appeared on the wind as Samuel and Brooks ran along the Feroxian border pass's easternmost wall. Dancing in the faint torchlight, a spinning, familiar hand axe appeared from the dense fog, sailing directly into the back of Brooks' knee. The mage violently crashed to the ground, yelping in surprise.

"Brooks!" Samuel shouted, voice mixed with concern and surprise. He knelt at Brooks' side, noticing that his spellbook had been wrought from his hands, and was laying in the snow with the pages opened to a spell that Samuel did not recognize.

Out from the darkness, a lone archer appeared, bow at the ready. Her right shoulder was torn open and bleeding profusely, but she held the bow fully taut despite the pain.

"Damned Ylissean," the archer spat, "The captain gave the order to stand our ground, and I'm not about to roll over and die just because a couple of knee-quakers decided to show up."

The archer let the arrow fly, sailing through the air and embedding itself in the ground just in front of Samuel's feet. Thinking quickly, Samuel grabbed Brooks' book and began to cast the spell the pages were open to.

As the spell channeled briefly, Samuel's hair began to stand on edge. A thick, energetic power began to flow from the yellow runes surrounding him.

"Breathe, Samuel… and release!" the priest poured as much energy as he could into releasing the build up, magical energy. From above, two massive bolts of lighting directly struck the archer, their sound reverberating through the gateway. The power of the spell was massive enough to knock Samuel back, falling back first onto the snow-covered pathway.

Samuel began to right himself, his vision spinning from being knocked onto the back of his head. He rose, rubbing the injury soothingly, before remembering Brooks was still in danger. He rushed as quickly he could to the mage's side, removing the hand axe from his leg. Brooks uttered nary a word in protest, having fallen unconscious from the sudden blow.

Raising his slightly-damaged healing staff, Samuel channeled his energy into the red gem affixed to the top. Green light coalesced, enveloping the fallen mage. The wound on the back of Brooks' knee closed, and his breathing began to normalize. Samuel returned it to its holder on his back, turning Brooks upright.

"Are you alright, Brooks?" the priest asked, shaking the mage slightly.

Brooks opened his glass-covered brown eyes, which focused intently on Samuel's face before nodding.

"I'm alright. Thanks for the save, buddy."

Brooks sat upright, turning his attention to the small fires where the Feroxian archer once stood.

"Samuel," the mage asked, looking back at the white-robed priest, "What spell did you use to do… that?"

"This one," Samuel replied, handing the spellbook back to its owner, still turned to the page the book had landed open on. Brooks studied the page for a moment before gasping in shock.

"This is Elthunder," Brooks gaped. "You… were actually able to _use_ Elthunder?"

"Yeah. That's… good, I guess?"

"Good? That's absolutely fantastic! I'm not even able to use that one. And believe me, I've tried!"

"Really? You're serious?"

"Absolutely But we still have more important matters to see to, right? Lester and Desmond are still fighting out there."

"Can you walk?" Samuel fretted in concern.

Brooks rose to his feet, taking several tentative steps forward.

"Looks like it. Imagine that, fantastic at both healing and spellcasting. Who knew?"

* * *

Lester pulled his spear from the neck of the fourth Feroxian cavalier, while Desmond kicked the fallen body of a soldier. Among them were the broken corpses of another fighter and the third cavalier the Easterners had sent their way.

Desmond's ears pricked at the sound of movement, too faint for Lester to hear. As Desmond's gaze shifted towards the movement, so too followed Lester's, spotting the silhouettes of two robed men making their way up the northward path.

Samuel and Brooks stepped out of the fog, both looking like they had seen their fair share of battle. Brooks dragged a heavy, curved throwing axe behind him comically, unable to lift the weapon. As soon as Samuel laid eyes on Desmond, he instinctively reached for his healing staff and pointed its red-gemmed head at the taguel.

"You're injured, Desmond. Let me fix you up," Samuel spoke attentively, beginning to channel as healing energy appeared around the taguel. The bruise around his eye where the first fighter had beaten him began to disappear, while the gash at his side and various other scrapes sealed completely. He then turned his attention to Lester, looking him up and down. "And you are not, Lester."

The stern look on the paladin's face did not falter.

"These East Feroxians fought like children. I expected a better-trained force manning their conquered territory."

Brooks laughed raucously, patting Ranofer's side firmly. Desmond, noticing the weapon the mage was attempting to carry, asked,

"Hey, is that my hand axe?"

Brooks composed himself before nodding.

"I think so," he affirmed, struggling to hand the weapon back to its owner. Desmond, saving the mage the trouble, stepped towards him and plucked the axe effortlessly from his grip.

Lester and Samuel erupted into laughter at the very sight, the paladin nearly falling from Ranofer's saddle. Desmond, however, interrupted the fleeting joyous moment. Silence fell upon the nighttime plains of Regna Ferox.

"One thing, though… what happened to the lady with the spear? She's Feroxian, she wouldn't flee a battle like this."

"I don't remember cutting her down," Lester pondered, stroking his chin. "Have you dealt with her, Brooks?"

The mage shook his head slowly in disappointment and worry.

"Afraid not, no. Samuel and I haven't seen her since she took off at the start of the ambush."

The paladin humphed, Ranofer kicking at a pile of pebbles.

"That makes four unaccounted Feroxians. Two armored knights, a hooded man, and her." Lester raised his sword and red-gold kiteshield, the gold-armored white horse trotting in place. "Be on guard and stay close. They could come from anywhere."

As if on cue, the characteristic clanking of heavy armor appeared from further up the northern path through the darkness. Torchlight illuminated the four approaching figures as the fog began to fade. Two heavily armored knights, a hooded man, and the imposing, spear-wielding Feroxian woman from before, exactly as Lester had accounted for.

"Stay vigilant, everyone. They advance."

The wind began to howl and snowfall once again began as the party of Feroxians approached into shouting distance. The knights held wicked spears at the ready, while the hooded figure held a spellbook open to an obscured page.

"You lot have slaughtered my men, and ruined my standing with my captain," the lightweight knight shouted from across the snow-covered path. "For that, I will slaughter you all."

"I am willing to end this quickly, Feroxians" Lester retorted, maintaining his ever-calm disposition, "Lay down your weapons and we will grant you just deaths."

The female knight spat, an indistinguishable expression crossing her face from the intensity of the snowfall.

"Like hell I'm going to lay down and die to a bunch of Naga worshipping, Western-loving Ylisseans. Guardsmen, advance!"

The knights and mage exploded forwards like a spring, charging into battle with gusto. The hooded Feroxian mage selected Lester as his target, firing a simple Fire spell at the armored paladin as he drew his blood-red lance from its sheath on Ranofer's armor in anticipation for a long-ranged battle. He raised his shield to block the incoming spell, but its force was still great enough to knock the paladin from his mount's saddle. Startled, Ranofer reared up on her hind legs before charging off in the opposite direction from battle.

Lester landed upon the snow-covered ground shield first, pain coursing through his left arm. He quickly pulled himself to his feet, rushing forward only to stab the air where the Feroxian mage was standing a moment before. The Feroxian was nimble, seemingly appearing behind Lester instantaneously. He only heard the sounds of pages before an excruciating shock coursed through his body.

Crashing into the ground, Lester screamed in agony as the mage channeled electricity through his body. Pain like he had never experienced coursed along his skin, his gilded armor doing little to protect him from the Thunder spell.

"I expected more from you, paladin," the mage chided arrogantly, erupting in maniacal laughter. "To think someone as weak as you was responsible for—"

The mage cut off, and his spell ended as abruptly as his speech. Struggling, Lester managed to glance backward to where the mage was standing before. A familiar, curved axe protruded from the left side of his skull, as he fell limply to the opposite side.

Desmond casually strolled up to the fallen Feroxian and injured paladin, plucking his throwing axe from the mage's bloodied scalp. The taguel kneeled at Lester's side, a large white vial in hand.

"Hey, you okay?" he asked with a concerned tone, rolling the armored man to a face-up position.

"I… am fine," Lester responded, wincing after each and every word. He managed to pull himself into a sitting position, noticing that the ends of his short, brown hair were singed off as he rubbed the back of his head.

"You don't look that way, pal. Drink this, it'll make you feel better." The taguel laid the vial at the paladin's side before standing up.

"One of the knights had this concoction on him," Desmond continued. "Luckily, it didn't break when he fell after I lopped his head off."

Desmond charged back into the fray, assisting Brookswith the remaining heavily armored knight. Samuel was attempting to help as well, his short blasts of Wind having little effect on the massive wall of a man.

Lester uncorked the vial, letting every last drop of the pale liquid flow down his throat. His vision began to blur as the healing took effect quickly. The red lines on his hands, and presumably running down the rest of his body, faded into the natural olive color of his skin. As the burning sensation passed as well, the paladin rose, feeling as fit as ever.

The paladin pulled himself to his feet, the waves of healing still disorienting. He could hear fighting, but his vision was blurred like a weathered oil painting. The figures in the snow danced gracefully, green and red particles of magic floating like ribbons.

Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs from his mind, Lester took a step forward putting his weight on his blood-red hilted lance. He stumbled, quickly picking himself back up and watching the horizon in the distance.

As his vision began to clear, he noticed a distant figure slowly approaching him from out of the fog, carrying a gold-adorned steel throwing spear. Their simple set of blue armor was light, yet heavy enough to take a hit. The scarf tightly woven around their neck was enough to conceal their face, yet at the same time reveal exactly who they were.

"So the Ylissean pup has woken from his dirt nap," she mocked, planting the pointed end of her spear in the ground, the long iron chain rattling in response.

"Well? Here I am!" the knight raised her arms to the side and above her head in challenge. "Come and take a stab at me, paladin."

Even through the miasma of Lester's concoction-addled mind, he was aware enough to take notice of the obvious baiting strategy the knight employed. Lester held his ground, spear and kiteshield at the ready.

"Not buying in, huh? That's alright, I suppose."

"Why are you doing this?" Lester asked, surprising himself that he was able to form coherent thought despite the state he was in. "This is Western territory, a Western gate. You have no right to be here."

"Why?" the knight replied, eliciting a slight chuckle from her. "Same reason as you, I suppose. We both have our orders to fulfill. Yours to your exalt, and mine to my captain."

"I suppose you understand what comes next, then." Lester stood up a little straighter upon saying this, the side effects of the concoction finally ceasing after the brew worked its healing powers.

Lester could not tell in the gloom, but the hint of a smile seemed to spread across her face.

"That I do, paladin. Hell, if you were Feroxian you'd be the kind of man I'd like to share drinks with. But no matter." The light-armored knight plucked her regal spear from the snow, calmly walking forwards. "Time to end this. Have at you!"

– – –

The knight lunged forward with almost inhuman speed, and was soon upon Lester before he could even comprehend it. The effects of the concoction had all but ended, yet Lester's limbs still felt slow and heavy. Fortunately, the heavy golden-red armor that the paladin wore was enough to keep most of the knight's assault from harming him.

A stab from the knight's lance struck plumb to Lester's kiteshield, causing her to stumble backwards. Noticing the opening, Lester swung his lance in an arc only to connect with the ground that the knight was standing upon moments ago.

Raising a challenging smirk, the knight held her spear horizontally, pointed directly at Lester.

"Y'know, you and I are a lot alike, paladin," she taunted, "Just following orders."

Lester scowled angrily, almost being blown back by a strong gust of wind. Perhaps he was still weak from the concoction, but Lester was more concerned with his nerves. He was never nervous going into battle, ever.

He raised his kiteshield once again, refusing to fall for the knight's bluffs. He was in no condition to charge her, and even if he was she was far more agile than he. Defensive tactics would be the key to walking away from this battle. This did little to please the thirst for combat the knight harbored, the confident smirk fleeing her face quickly.

"So that's how it's gonna be, huh," she muttered, giving a short sigh, "Two can play at that game, then."

Instead of lunging forward with ferocity, she shifted the regal spear into a throwing position. Aiming briefly, she lobbed the spear at the paladin, who deftly blocked it with his shield. Before he had the chance to move to face her while she was unarmed, a quick tug on the chain attached to the weapon brought it back to her grasp.

She tossed the weapon again, Lester stepping back from the spear's path this time. The regal spear whistled through the air, impaling itself into the snow-covered ground. The knight once again gave the chain a powerful tug, but the weapon had landed at just an angle that made it difficult to pull.

Noticing her error, Lester raised his spear, thrusting it straight down into the connecting chain. Lester's weapon bounced off, seemingly doing little to sever the chain. He brought it down once again, this time with more force.

_Ka-chink._

The wrought iron chain split in two, the end attached to the spear falling uselessly into the snow. The Eastern knight at the other end dropped the broken, useless chain links in panic. She quickly, with shaking hands, unsheathed a small dagger and held it towards the paladin with both hands her face carrying an expression of horror. Lester had never seen a Feroxian person, Western or Eastern, genuinely scared before.

Lester pushed his emotions to the side, gripping his spear intently. This was his chance, nothing she could do would be able to stop him. The paladin charged, heavy footfalls against the snow clanging like iron against iron.

"I will not hold back!" his cry of anger, mixed with something that seemed like vengeance, rang across the battlefield. The roar even reached Desmond's ears, tilting his head to the sky and away from the body of the fallen general he was standing over.

Metal met flesh, and the end of Lester's spear ran cleanly through the light layer of armor and heart of the East Feroxian knight. As he pulled the wicked blade from the knight's chest, her legs began to buckle, falling to the snow with an unceremonious thump.

"…Clever ploy, Ylissean," she said, her voice nothing more than a whisper, "I guess I had you pegged all wrong…"

The knight seized up one final time, her last breath escaping her lungs. The pool of scarlet that flowed from underneath her was the only sign that the corpse ever had any life to begin with.

Lester stared at the body. No matter how many times he would kill, this part would never get any easier. He took several paces back, reclaiming the regal spear from underneath the pile of ruined chains. The intricacy of the weapon felt off for a nation as simple as Ferox.

"You were wrong," he muttered, placing the Easterner's spear blade-first into the snow. Even though she was his enemy, her body and weapon at least deserved some measure of respect.

"You and I are nothing alike."

* * *

"You know, Lester, I felt like the battle between you and the leader would have… y'know, lasted longer. Been more noteworthy, maybe."

Brooks appeared behind Lester, almost as if he materialized from the whirling snow around the battlefield, or what was left of it. Brooks beckoned Lester, and the two began to walk together to the cart parked underneath the portcullis.

"Just because she was their leader does not mean we would spar in a duel fit for legend. That is material for children's tales." Lester returned a stern gaze to the dark-robed mage before sighing heavily.

"She was just one woman. Not an entire army."

"I know, but I was looking forward to telling the story to the others over the campfire tonight. All I have right now is: 'Lester stumbled into the enemy confusedly, she hit him a few times, he broke her weapon chain and killed her.' The end. Not very exciting."

"If I were you, I'd be more concerned about whether or not we'll have a campfire."

Lester pointed to the burned remains of their transportation, which elicited a groan from the mage as he remembered what had happened to it. The thrown torch, and the cart going up in a puff of smoke. As the two neared ever closer to the ruined remains of the conestoga, they could see Samuel digging through the ashes, salvaging what supplies he could.

The two approached Desmond, who was standing anxiously next to the ruined cart.

"C'mon, c'mon… please be okay…"

"Desmond? You okay?" Brooks asked, with concern heavily weighing his voice.

"Gwah!" The taguel jumped, and turned with a rattled expression that quickly faded into a more neutral face.

"Brooks? Oh, it's you. It's you. Sorry about that," Desmond laughed nervously to himself while Lester and Brooks stared with confused expressions. "What? I'm… just hoping that our stuff survived the fire! Yeah, that's it."

"You do not sound so sure," Lester spoke simply, causing Desmond to sweat nervously.

"What? Quit staring! Don't you two have something better to do?"

"I do not believe so."

"Ugh… go find another Eastern lady to skewer. I need space."

As if to diffuse the conversation, Samuel poked his head from the gray ash heap that was once a cart, and started towards the group.

"Alright, here's what I've pulled. Brooks' tinderbox…" the priest tossed the iron box to Brooks, which he deftly caught before giving a disappointed look at the newly blackened exterior.

"I just had this thing replaced last week…" Brooks pouted, stashing the item into his robes.

"…Lester's first aid kit, two canisters of water, three vulneraries, and… this thing," Samuel finished, before setting a heavily-ornamented, steel box on the ground. Objects within clattered around at the sudden shock.

"YES!" Desmond's face beamed with joy, as he ran up and plucked the keepsake from the ground. "It's okay!"

The taguel pulled the box into a tight hug, falling over backwards into the snow with it.

"Pray tell, Desmond. What is that thing?" Lester asked innocently, standing over Desmond with a curious expression.

"My rock collection."

"What." Brooks spoke, his one word proving more than enough to express his bewilderment.

"But I thought you disliked rocks," Lester continued, still as innocently curious as ever. "Considering you have never used your beaststone in combat."

"That's different!" Desmond argued, standing upright to meet the paladin at eye level.

"I do not see how."

"Damn it! Leave me alone, old man!"

"But I am only one year older than you."

Desmond began to argue furiously at the paladin, who returned all of his points with simple emotionless responses. All the while, Samuel approached Brooks with an unsure expression.

"What're we to do now?" he inquired, not able to meet Brooks' gaze. "We've lost our transport, and the chill of midnight is encroaching quickly."

"Don't worry," the mage returned with a comforting gaze, "I've been in this situation before. We'll have to keep walking until we can find something to burn or someone else who has set up a shelter."

Samuel nodded, but behind him the arguing taguel stopped mid sentence with his head turned to the sky. His expression was unreadable, which was never good news in Desmond's case.

"Wait. I smell something," he spoke plainly, nose tilted in a specific direction unflinchingly. "Truth be told, I've smelled it since we've gotten here, but I haven't had the time to pay it much mind."

"What is it? Describe it to me," Lester demanded, his serious expression unaltered from their previous conversation.

"…Iron. And not the kind that they use in weaponry. And… something else beneath that. Something I can't really describe."

"Iron…" Lester turned the word over on his tongue, almost tasting it as he spoke the word while pacing up and down on the snow. "Iron, iron…" After pondering for a moment, he turned back to Lester, his expression still neutral. "Lead the way, Desmond. I have a vague idea of what it is you speak of."

Desmond nodded, and lead his other three companions away from the destroyed cart and down the northward path. As they walked, Desmond was able to pick out a faint scraping sound from beneath the howling of wind and snow. The beckoned the three towards the detour, and approaching the noise revealed Ranofer, stamping the snow impatiently.

"Ranofer! My girl, there you are!" Lester wrapped his arms around the white horse's neck, and could faintly tell that the regal mare was shivering slightly in the frigid air.

"She's cold," he stated, leading her back to the other three. "We need to find something to warm her up, and quickly."

Desmond nodded knowingly, patting Ranofer on the head comfortingly before turning to Lester.

"She'll make it. C'mon, we need to find the source of that smell before the cold sets in much more deeply."

The other three nodded, while Desmond quickened his pace to a jog. After a short while, he stopped at a mound of slightly raised ground just outside the gate. The wind blew ever harder while the snow continued its relentless onslaught. Shivering slightly as the wind buffeted his bare chest, he kneeled at the ground and placed a hand atop it.

"This is the spot."

Lester joined his friend at his side, kneeling down as well. By now, even his weaker human nose could detect the presence of something foul. The two robed men covered their noses with their thick, cloth robes.

"This, Desmond…" Lester began, adopting a solemn tone, "…is a mass grave. Undoubtedly, the Western Feroxians who once manned this gate are all buried here. I do not wish to open it."

"A mass grave?" Desmond's voice was almost seething at even the thought. "Typical of the East, using nothing but dirty tactics. I can't believe I ever lived alongside them."

The taguel stood, hiding his gaze from the rest of the party.

"C'mon. Let's keep moving."

– – –

"Feroxian nights are a lot like Feroxian days. More often than not, they're colder than cold, and in a lot of terrible ways. Oh, how I've _terribly_ missed you, Regna Ferox."

Desmond spat at the snow drifts, his saliva comically freezing in midair before piercing through the thick layer of snow.

"Hey, Brooks? How long until we find something to burn?"

"How the hell should I know?" the hatless mage roared against the howling gale, holding a small, magical fire in his right hand. "I've never been up here before!"

"Of all the times our cart had to go up in flames…" Desmond shielded his face with the flat of his arm as a heavy gust of wind blew towards the taguel, nearly knocking him over.

"Steel yourselves, friends," Lester reassured, yet his voice wavered. "Only a few more steps."

Because of the cold, the paladin was forced to dismount Ranofer and was leading her with a rope. The majestic horse appeared cold, weak, and frail despite her elegant armor and coat.

"It was 'a few more steps' a few steps ago, too," Brooks complained. He took another step, tripping over as he stumbled onto a stone buried by the massive layer of snow, extinguishing his fire and reducing the visibility to next to nothing. "Gods damn it…"

"Hey Brooks? Do you think you can get that light back up?" Samuel's voice was barely a whisper against the howling squall of wind and snow. The priest had the hood on his white, blue-trimmed robe pulled up to combat the storm, but did little to shield against the onslaught.

"Yeah, yeah, hold on. I can't really focus with this storm… wait a minute."

Brooks craned his head forward, squinting to focus on something on the horizon. Surely enough, something that wasn't darkness was buried deep within the heavily falling snow. Something warm, inviting, and cozy…

"Light!" Brooks exclaimed, pointing forward. In the rage of the storm, his companions had some difficulty pinpointing the beacon of hope, but eventually picked out its warm gaze against the backdrop of endless nighttime void. Just down the slope the four were standing upon, a small, fuzzy, orange patch illuminated several of the snowflakes before their luster was extinguished by reentering the darkness of midnight.

"Hold a moment," Lester cautioned, killing the joyous mood of the other three quickly. "I sense danger. We must be cautious in our approach."

"Oh please," the bespectacled mage scoffed, "We just took down how many Easterners? Twenty? And with the element of surprise, too."

Lester appeared quite disgruntled at Brooks' lack of concern, his voice becoming that of a low growl.

"All I am saying is to be cautious. We are still going over there regardless."

Brooks nodded, satisfied with Lester's answer. He turned the pages of his book with some difficulty due to the wind, yet eventually managed to light a small fire above the palm of his hand once again. He shut the pages of the tome before the falling snowflakes had a chance to ruin the neatly inked pages.

"C'mon. Only a few more steps now," Brooks added before chuckling at his own unintentional joke.

The lightened mood seemed to quicken the steps of the four companions, the heavily falling snow much less of an issue than before. Brooks took the vanguard, his tiny flame doing little to suppress the incoming onslaught of snowflakes.

After several labored paces, the white barrier slowly turned to that of welcoming orange warmth. In the light, objects surrounding the welcoming fire became more visible. The central campfire became plain, and a tiny, covered wagon lay damaged nearby. And was that… red cloth? A scarlet bundle of _something_ lay still within the confines of the wagon, contrasting heavily to the otherwise ordinary items inside.

Brooks started laughing maniacally, rushing over to the steadily roaring fire.

"Eheheh… so warm…" Brooks began to pant and drool heavily as he kneeled over the fire.

Lester took a seat next to the mage, an inquisitive expression upon his face.

"The wagon is positioned just so to block the brunt of the wind," he noted, "Very clever, indeed."

"Hey, bring Ranofer over to the fire, Desmond," Samuel urged, finding a spot next to the other three. Desmond nodded, tugging on the rope entrusted to him by Lester as he spoke something quietly to the mare. At his beckon, Ranofer trotted up to the campfire and collapsed of exhaustion next to it, a rumbling snore emanating from her shortly after.

"Hey, Lester," Desmond asked, leaning back against the sleeping horse, "Why do you think that… y'know, all of this is here?"

The paladin pursed his lips as he lay his kiteshield, scabbarded sword, and warspear against a nearby stone. He reclaimed his spot near the fire, and responded,

"I am not quite sure myself. The previous owner may have gone searching for food and succumbed to the cold. Or perhaps…"

He turned slightly to his left, where the red bundle of cloth had leapt from the damaged cart and was brandishing a segmented gray blade with a gold hilt. The grip was fashioned out of burnished red leather, a similar shade to the color of the cloak its master was wearing.

The sword-wielder drew back her scarlet hood, revealing that the cloak was white on the inside. And more importantly, the owner of the campsite was a fair-skinned girl, with striking eyes as gray as her blade and two long blonde pigtails that rested in front of her shoulders.

"…she has been among us the whole time," Lester finished, surprisingly calm about the owner of the fire pointing a blade directly at Brooks' neck.

"Y-you there," she demanded, grip tightening on the blade's hilt, "State your name and your business or I will end you here and now."

Brooks raised both his arms above his head in surrender, looking incredibly panicked.

"I-I-I-I just wanted some fire, that's all! Please don't kill me!"

"Name. Business. Now," the red-cloaked woman articulated, refusing to lower her gaze from the frightened mage, "I will have it. Please." She tacked on the _please_ at the end of the sentence as if to invoke some measure of sympathy from the mage.

Lester stood up, bowing respectfully to the cloaked girl.

"Pardon my friend's manners, miss," he spoke, his interpersonal skills once again proving useful. "His name is Brooks, and those two over there are Desmond and Samuel."

The priest and taguel both raised a hand in greeting, not daring to move an inch.

"And I am Lester. We are travelers, and our cart has been destroyed, and with it our supplies. We respectfully ask if we may seek refuge here for the night, and no longer."

The cloaked girl turned to the paladin, her glowering expression melting into that of recognition almost instantly.

"Wait a moment. That face… clean shaven, short hair, defined jawline… traveling with two humans and a taguel… I know you." She paced around the paladin, taking in every inch of him. "You are Lester of Blackwood, paladin of Ylisse. Right?"

"T-that I am, miss," Lester stuttered, taken aback. "Have… we met, before?"

"Ack!" she exclaimed, quickly sheathing her curious blade, "Dammit Esthara, you are such an idiot!"

As soon as the blade disappeared into its scabbard, Brooks retreated behind Ranofer, who was still snoring away. He poked his head up from behind her to watch the scene from a safe distance.

Clearing her throat, Esthara continued, "I apologize, Lester. I am a student of the professor of strategy, Kairos. I have grave news."

Her expression became downcast as the snowstorm ever raged on, with only the protection of Esthara's small, damaged wagon to provide comfort against the storm.

* * *

**Roster**

**No.001 Nila**

A resident of Plegia and descendent of one of the famous time travelers of Ylissean past, Morgan. Although weakly, he carries the same blood of Grima used to revive the fell dragon generations ago. He was a tactician for the Plegian Mercenaries in the past, who eventually dissolved under his leadership.

The most likely fall asleep while reading.

Born on December 20th, age 24.

Class: Tactician (**Sword**|**Anima**, **Dark** from Shadowgift)

**No.002 Matthew**

The leader of a group of fighters known as the Justice Brigade, who prefers the name Matt. He brought the group together after he and Hunter fled a devastated city in Western Ferox, one of the first Western settlements destroyed by the marauding nation. His confident personality is what the Justice Brigade's foundation stands upon, yet he harbors doubts of his own sometimes.

The one who slouches the most.

Born on January 2nd, age 21.

Class: Wyvern Lord (**Axe**|Lance)

**No.003 Hunter**

A Feroxian duelist with a deadly mastery of swordplay. He has lived in not one, but two villages that have been razed by magic-wielding bandits or conquesting Easterners. The loss of his sister invoked a keen sense of justice within him and a fear of magic and fire.

The least fond of parlor tricks.

Born on January 25th, age 22.

Class: Swordmaster (**Sword**)

**No.004 Chastity**

An Ylissean Falcon Knight—who prefers to go by Chast—with pale white skin and red eyes. Her albinism runs in the family, being shared with her father. She had high hopes of joining the Ylissean cavalry, yet was advised to pursue a separate line of work by her father. She instead took up work as a mercenary, and eventually met Matt after he saved her life.

The one with the scariest glare.

Born on October 29th, age 17.

Class: Falcon Knight (**Lance**|**Staff**)

**No.005 Marius**

A peculiar fighter hailing from Stormguard. Initially striving to be a scholar, Marius studied magic diligently throughout his childhood. However, he shifted priorities when bands of rogue dark mages attacked the settlement. With his interesting combination of swords, Anima, and throwing axes, he joined the enthusiastic Justice Brigade to put his skills to the test.

The one with the worst sense of humor.

Born on April 1st, age 20.

Class: Dread Fighter (**Sword**|**Axe**|**Anima**)

**No.006 Valkus**

A Valmese quartermaster who tolerates nonsense of no kind. After a false claim of fraudulence, Valkus chartered a ship to the Ylissean continent. She joined the Justice Brigade after falling to them in a battle to mete out justice for herself and others. How this beauty's personality meshes with the jovial brigade is a mystery.

The most likely to enjoy taking inventory.

Born on March 25th, age 28.

Class: General (**Lance**|Axe)

**No.007 ?**

…

**No.008 Lester**

A seasoned veteran and guardian of Ylissean royalty. Lester began his training for knighthood at the young age of seven. He failed to protect the lord he was sworn to from a powerful East Feroxian warlord. He formed the Ylissean Vanguard in an attempt right the mistakes that he brought upon the halidom.

The longest bather.

Born on May 15th, age 20.

Class: Paladin (**Sword**|**Lance**)

**No.009 Desmond**

One of the rare taguel who bounced back from the brink of extinction. Desmond is one of the few taguel who have refused to their cultural roots of warren life. He trained under a man who fought against the Gray Claw, a taguel purist society that threatened his home. He refuses to use his beaststone.

The one with the biggest rock collection.

Born on August 8th, age 19.

Class: Taguel Fighter (**Axe**|Beaststone)

**No.010 Samuel**

An Ylissean priest of minor nobility. His rigorous education led him to priesthood, where he trained in the Holy Church of Naga to heal his allies. After being denied entry to the Ylissean military, he was recruited by Lester to heal for the Ylissean Vanguard.

The best at insulting others.

Born on July 14th, age 21.

Class: Scholar (**Staff**|**Anima**)

**No.011 Brooks**

A mage of Ylissean background that has traveled the world across. With his traveling mage caravan, he saw the shores of Valm, the peaks of both Feroxes, the sands of Plegia, and the rolling hills of Ylisse. Longing to be greater than an entertainer, he left his caravan to create his own adventures.

The one with dirt on absolutely everyone.

Born on March 10th, age 25.

Class: Mage (**Anima**)

***New* No.012 Esthara**

An Ylissean tactician in training. She wields the legendary weapon Mercurius, one of the three regalia of old, given to her as a gift by her professor. Studying under the legendary tactician and professor Kairos, she aims to one day match the intellectual might of the most famous tacticians in history.

The lightest sleeper.

Born on November 19, age 19.

Class: Strategist (**Sword**)


	6. 3: Whispers and Shouts

Nila spread out a large map of Plegia across his kitchen table, the Justice Brigadiers gazing inquisitively at the parchment.

"So the five of you are looking for a Plegian border town, am I correct?" Nila asked, turning his gaze to the very easternmost side of the map.

"That's right," Matt responded, opening a small envelope he had hidden within his black leather pants. "Says here that they lost their protector entity. Fool didn't write down the town name though."

"Wait!" Nila exclaimed, turning to the massive wall of a man, "Say that again."

"Fool didn't write down the—"

"No, not that. Before that."

"… Protector entity?"

"Precisely. You say you're looking for a Plegian border town, guarded by a protector entity… Most likely a manakete? I don't know how you managed to come so far inland, but I know exactly which town you're looking for."

Nila laid the tip of his finger on one tiny dot, which lay very close to the Ylissean border. The members of the Justice Brigade gathered around, their eyes fixated on where Nila's finger was pointing.

"Abnorun."

* * *

Lester nodded, a grave expression written across his face. His eyes stared with a passivity all too common of him.

"I… see. It is safe to assume that Ylisstol has fallen as well, I suppose?"

Esthara nodded, sharing the same expression as the paladin. She was undoubtedly scarred by the events that had taken place around her recently, and now she found herself lost in the middle of a tundra without the comforting gaze of her professor watching over her.

"Yes. That is what the professor said," Esthara spoke, her voice merely a whisper against the raging winter storm.

"I understand. Kairos is a great man, and he has assisted myself and many others in times of need. I have no doubt that he is working as diligently as he can to restore Ylisse to order."

Esthara's interest piqued at the mention of her mentor, and her blank expression dissolved into that of inquiry.

"Oh? From where do you know him, Sir Lester?"

Lester held his hand up dismissively.

"Just Lester is suitable, thank you. I met him when I was down on my luck about a year ago. He cared for me for several days, managed to give me an audience with Exalt Spes, and disappeared afterwards."

Esthara nodded, gray eyes shining.

"That sounds like something he would do. He may be mysterious, but he is quite generous."

"And a fine mentor, I would assume," Lester added, a small smile creeping onto his face.

"And that as well."

Silence fell upon the makeshift campsite, only the sounds of Ranofer's snoring rising above the fierce winds. Nearby, Desmond slept, still propped up against Ranofer's gently rising and falling side. Brooks and Samuel held smalltalk while drinking some freshly prepared tea that they discovered in the cart's food store.

Pouring himself a cup of hot water from the kettle atop the roaring fire, Lester broke the heavy barrier of silence.

"What brings you up all this way? You were tasked with informing me of Ylisstol's fall, but I doubt that is your only purpose for venturing up here."

Esthara swallowed a mouthful of Ylissean green tea, setting her cup aside by the fire. She turned to face Lester, her glowing expression faded.

"Kairos tasked me with going to Arena Ferox, and meeting you there. But I suppose both of us encountered some difficulty on the way."

Esthara glanced to her damaged wagon, whose front axle had fallen off while the rest was nearly halfway buried in snow. The canvas covering the cart caved in slightly where snow was beginning to pile up.

"Indeed," Lester said simply, letting the conversation drop. Silence once again fell upon the campsite, as Samuel and Brooks had retreated to safe spots out of reach of the wind to rest. The paladin and novice tactician followed suit after exchanging neutral goodnights, Lester laying a sleeping bag behind a particularly large stone and Esthara retreating inside the damaged wagon.

The heavy snowstorm began to wane as the night carried on further, the howling gale and fog no more than distant memories of a night long gone. Only a light snowfall remained, and with it a peaceful silence.

Esthara stretched as she laid in the makeshift bed of fur pelts she had crafted, her cloak over her shivering body in lieu of a blanket. The course of events over her day had been interesting to say the least, having spent the entirety of it in a cramped cart with Naga fanatics. Esthara too loved the goddess, but she quickly learned over the course of her day that most indoctrinated into the cult were not quite as mentally stable as most church-goers.

Her hometown of Celemis was situated well north of the Ylissean capital, making the journey northward surprisingly quick with the assistance of the modest weather the morning before. Their group reached the border and passed without a hitch, but were ambushed well outside the gate by figures dressed in West Feroxian attire. They were without a doubt Eastern infiltrators based on their fighting patterns, that much was obvious to her.

The cultists were routed quickly after the attack, and Esthara was able to stay hidden underneath the large stash of furs that they brought with them. What the cultists needed with wolf pelts she couldn't say, but they were effective in keeping herself hidden.

"_And warm, too,"_ Esthara thought as she buried herself deeper in the pile of pelts. Fortunately, the Feroxian attackers neglected to salvage the wagon's supplies, leaving the vehicle—and more importantly the furs—all to herself. The horse pulling the cart, however, met an untimely end at the hands of a battleaxe, so the tactician was forced to push the cart to a safer position away from the main road.

Thanks to that _genius_ train of thought, the front axle of the wagon was destroyed and the rest of it was buried in a ditch. Without a form of transportation, Esthara had few options left to toy with. She couldn't very well call for help in the Feroxian wilderness, or even in Ylisse if the professor's suspicions were accurate, and the roads weren't particularly suitable for travel at the moment either. The professor had also neglected to give her formal instructions for what to do after finding Lester, so—

"Esthara," a voice spoke, forcibly dragging her back to reality. Lester appeared from behind the canvas wall of the covered wagon, his expression still as neutral and unblinking as it had been minutes ago aside the campfire.

"Lester. What brings you here?" Esthara asked, sitting upright and letting some of the piled furs spill off to either side. A sharp gust of freezing wind suddenly blew through the cart, causing the tactician to wrap her removed cloak around her torso.

"I must ask you something. I had forgotten while we conversed near the fire, but I am afraid it cannot wait until dawn."

"Oh? Speak your mind."

"I… well…" Lester began to stammer, his eyes darting from side to side. "Would you mind… sleeping somewhere else tonight?"

Esthara scowled angrily, and clutched a nearby fur pelt to her chest.

"If you think you're taking my furs, you have another thing coming!"

"N-No, no, it's not that," Lester stuttered, holding his hands up to his sides defensively. "It will be difficult to fix the wagon if you are sleeping in it. Not to mention how unbearably loud it certainly be."

Taken aback, Esthara managed to say, "Y-you can actually fix this thing? Do we even have the right tools?"

"Of course," Lester nodded, his expression unchanging, "I'm familiar with this make of wagon, so the storage should be…"

Lester stepped onto the cart, pushing various items aside until he revealed a trapdoor at the cart's center.

"…right here." Lester released the latch and opened the massive door, digging around inside briefly before pulling out a large wooden beam and a metallic box.

"It's wise to carry a spare axle, and those cultists were very much so. Quite strange," he added, throwing a glance to the fur pelts strewn around the interior, "But quite wise."

Lester hoisted the massive axle onto his right shoulder while carrying the toolbox in his free hand. He took cautious steps towards the opening at the front of the cart before hopping out onto the snowy ground.

"Can you carry all of that on your own, Lester?" Esthara fretted, clutching a fur to her chest tightly to ward of the cold.

"Absolutely," the paladin responded, setting the two objects down next to the front end of the cart. "I'm already finished. If you don't mind, could you fetch the snow chains from the storage compartment?"

Esthara nodded before retreating back into the wagon, emerging with four sets of chains moments later.

"Ah, excellent," the paladin praised, taking the heavy iron from her grasp and laying atop the pile of maintenance equipment. As he began to survey his tools, a thought seemed to run across his mind. He turned back to the young tactician.

"May I ask you something, Esthara?"

As Esthara pulled the last of the furs from the cart, she tilted her head quizzically at the paladin.

"Of course. Ask away."

Lester nodded, offering her a stern, yet comforting gaze.

"I will not prevaricate. Esthara, we need you to lead us."

Taken by surprise, Esthara's eyes widened as she dropped several of her furs into the snow.

"W-why?" she stammered, "You seemed to get along okay at the gate. You're a capable leader."

"No. I am not," Lester admitted, tearing his gaze away from her's, "I abandoned Brooks and Samuel as I charged blindly into the fog. If Samuel had not discovered he could control magic, they surely would have perished."

The paladin turned back to Esthara, his gaze burning intensely.

"If you are one of Kairos' top students, as you say, it would be my honor to follow your command into battle." Lester lowered himself onto one knee, his head bowed low in respect.

A light breeze began to pick up as Esthara stood in silence, holding a comical amount of fur pelts and staring at the kneeling paladin.

"You're certain about this?" Esthara asked hesitantly, "I actually haven't experienced real combat before. I've sparred with my peers, but never anything real. Am I ready?"

Lester tilted his head up, still not breaking his kneel.

"Samuel was in the same position as you earlier this evening. He did very well, considering the circumstances. And I believe you can too."

Esthara gave a small, close-lipped smile at the paladin's praise. She nodded once before saying, "Then I believe it is settled. I would be happy to lead you."

"And I'm sure any of us would be proud to follow you." Lester stood, standing noticeably taller than the young tactician. He held his hand out before shaking Esthara's firmly.

"Now, where am I supposed to sleep tonight?"

* * *

The wind rushed violently against Nila's face as he soared through the sky atop Chast's pegasus. The rolling dunes of sand below seemed to create an abstract painting of beige that melted away into a sea of endless blue sky. A sharp gust of wind buffeted Nila's chest, causing the tactician to grip the Falcon Knight's waist tightly.

"Are you sure this is safe?" Nila yelled, his voice barely carrying over the deafening squall. Chast turned, giving him a knowing, comforting gaze.

"It'll be fine, dear. Owar is one of the smoothest fliers born in the past decade. Just hold on tight."

Nila guessed that she let out a small giggle judging by her facial expression, but whatever sound may have been produced was lost to the wind. Nila sighed, and looked up to Matt's massive wyvern gliding gracefully above them. The wyvern was capable of carrying much more weight than the pegasus, effortlessly bearing the weight of not only the other four Brigadiers, but the entire group's camping supplies as well. Since Nila weighed the least and had the lightest weapons and armor of the three, he was chosen to ride with Chast in place of Marius.

"_We can fly to Abnorun,"_ Matt had said, jovial as ever. "_It'll be much quicker than marching on foot."_

"_That's how we got here, after all," _Valkus had chimed in, in the midst of equipping her suit of armor. "_It's a surefire way to avoid the desert heat, if anything."_

"_How fast can your mounts fly?" _Nila had asked, tracing a line from the red X marking his library on the map to the black dot labeled Abnorun at Plegia's border. "_We're looking at least a week's march on foot if we don't run into any sandstorms. Bandit activity has been high in the heart of the desert as well. It may take as long as two on ground."_

"_Fast enough,"_ Matt had responded, clapping the tactician on the back, nearly knocking him over and onto the scorching sand. "_Trust us. We'll get you there in style."_

"_Style indeed," _Nila thought, immediately being lurched into the air by a rough patch of turbulence. Nila buried his face in Chast's back as to not lose his grip on the Falcon Knight.

"Having fun, Nila?" a voice spoke, rising over the rushing winds. It appeared to his left side, distorted by winds that were no longer there. However, as Nila soon began to notice, the winds had disappeared completely, the air becoming deadening almost instantly. Nila struggled for breath as the flat air began to thin, the midday sun faded into a black disk as the surroundings adopted a foreboding darkness. Either Chast didn't notice or wasn't concerned enough to mention anything, as she continued to guide Owar through the eerily calm sky without a care.

"You look like you're having an absolutely _fantastic_ time," the voice continued mockingly. "I wish I was up there with you in the clouds, at risk of falling at the drop of a hat… But wait, I actually am!"

"You," Nila responded, the voice all-too familiar to him. "What do you want?"

"Oh, nothing!" it gasped in mock surprise. "Nothing at all. I just thought I'd drop by and pay you a visit. It's been far too long, you know."

"Please. You were there when these people were asking me to come with them and you know it. Don't think I didn't hear you in my thoughts."

"You know me all too well," the disembodied voice remarked. If it had a mouth, it probably would have smiled, albeit insincerely. "After all, you are me…"

"No you're—"

"Of course I am," it interrupted, asserting dominance over the conversation. "Why else would you call me 'Other Nila,' then? Hmm?"

"Alright, fine," Nila conceded, his eyes closing tightly. What the voice said was true, as Nila had coined the term 'Other Nila' due to the fact that its voice was strikingly similar to his own. Nila was silent for a moment before demanding, "What do you want this time? You always do have a reason for showing up."

"Finally, some measure of respect out of you. Now, you're in the perfect position, Nila. Grip Ashen's hilt for me."

Almost unconsciously, Nila moved his right arm from Chast's waist to the brown, leatherbound hilt of his dark, jagged blade. At his touch, magical energy began to flow through the violet veins of the weapon.

"Excellent," Other Nila praised, "Now, plunge the blade through her soft, white neck. Bury the sword in her supple flesh. Do it."

Other Nila's voice became increasingly demanding, as if time was of essence. This, however, was not the first time Other Nila carried murderous intentions.

"No," Nila exclaimed, his grip loosening on Ashen. The sparks running across the dark metal of the blade immediately began to die as Ashen returned to its resting state. "Why would I do that? Chast is—"

"An evil, terrible person," Other Nila finished, "You're absolutely right. She's out to get you. They all are."

"_They all are," _The phrase echoed all around him, and began to bounce around on the inside of his skull. Other voices materialized within his mind, repeating the phrase continuously.

"Trust no one."

"No! Shut up, dammit!"

As Nila spat the last of his words out, the darkness enveloping him seemed to race back into the black hole of a sun, as if it was frightened. The air began to move in violent currents once again, and the sun seemed to flip over like a coin to reveal the comforting yellow disk once again. It was over.

Nila took a breath and looked back up, only to meet Chast's gaze concern in her vibrant red eyes.

"…Dear? Are you okay?" she asked worriedly, taking both reins in one hand as she held the tactician's shoulder. "You just started shouting…"

"Huh? Oh, yes. I'm quite alright," Nila insisted, "Just fine."

Chast didn't seem convinced—Nila wouldn't be either after that pathetic excuse for a cover-up—but she took the tactician at his word before taking up Owar's reins in both hands once again.

"Just let me know if something is the matter, alright?"

Nila laid the side of his head against Chast's back, nodding once. The gale winds seemed to blow more comfortingly as Nila let sleep carry him back into the darkness of his mind.

* * *

"Is it fair to regret my every action last night?"

Lester lay inside the cart he had repaired the previous night atop Esthara's pile of furs, his armor cast to the side hastily revealing a simple back shirt and thin, light gray pants. Esthara sat at his side, buried in a book.

"I don't think you should," she said flatly, her eyes not looking up from the text, "It was thanks to you that you got us moving again. Get some rest."

"But I cannot, I still have to—"

"Get some rest, big guy," Desmond interjected, turning from his perch atop Ranofer, "We'll hold down the fort while you're down and out."

"But—"

"I'm the tactician, remember?" Esthara interrupted, looking up from her book, "You're going to need the rest if we're ambushed by bandits tonight. Go on, get some sleep."

Lester fought for words to use in argument, but none immediately came to mind. The paladin sighed, burying his face in a warm fur.

"I… fine. But at the first sign… of danger… make sure to—"

Lester's head fell, hitting a fur pelt with a muffled thud before he could so much as finish his sentence.

Esthara giggled and set her book atop a crate. She laid a thin blanket over the unconscious paladin before moving to the front of the cart and sat at the opening, her legs dangling freely.

"Lonely up here?" she asked the white-haired taguel, who glanced back with a smile before turning back to the snow-covered path before him.

"Maybe," he answered, smiling slyly. "Are Brooks and Samuel still asleep?"

Esthara nodded, but soon vocalized an affirmation after she realized Desmond was facing the opposite way.

"Lester repaired the wagon quite well, didn't he?" she added, rapping the wooden boards with her knuckles. "I never imagined that we might have this thing moving again."

"He's quite the guy, isn't he?" Desmond replied, "Must have learned a lot in the Blackwood court."

"Did you just say 'Blackwood?'" Esthara inquired, her interest piqued. "I've heard of them. Weren't they…"

"All killed. Yeah." Desmond's voice, barely a murmur, was almost lost upon the light breeze.

"Lester must be taking it quite hard."

Desmond winced, as if someone kicked him in the gut. Esthara knew she was treading on thin ice by approaching this topic.

"He doesn't really talk about it much," he stated, choosing his words carefully, "But for the most part, I think he's put it behind him. For better or for worse."

"But some things can never be forgotten, I suppose," Esthara contemplated, her thoughts unintentionally vocalizing. Desmond offered nothing in response. "…Right. Changing the subject… So you're a taguel, right?"

"That I am," Desmond spoke guardedly, "What's it to you?"

"What's that like?"

Desmond shrugged indifferently, tossing a glance back at the tactician.

"Probably no different than being a human, I'd imagine. Except I've got these ears and some fur."

"Ah! I see."

Esthara racked her mind to try and find something to keep the conversation going, but came up blank. Desmond did not seem as if he had anything to contribute to permeate the silence.

After what seemed like an eternity, Esthara eventually asked, "How long until we arrive, do you think?"

"Beats me," Desmond shrugged, refusing to make eye contact with Esthara, "Lester's the navigator in this area. He just told me to keep Ranofer moving this way."

Esthara sighed, no closer to the answers of any of her questions.

"Fair enough. Take care, Desmond."

"See ya," Desmond said plainly, only offering the tactician a backhanded wave before returning to his horse driving.

"_Great,"_ Esthara mentally grumbled, returning to the inside the wagon. She let her head fall onto a pile of fur pelts sighing deeply.

"_That's one enemy. Way to go, Esthara."_

* * *

When Nila awoke, the sun had already started to dip below the horizon, a hint of the chill to come later that night blowing on the wind. He also noticed that Owar was no longer flying, and was instead pawing at the ground impatiently. Noticing the tactician's stirring, the mare turned to look at him, her expression nagging, "Get off my back, lazybones."

The voices had all but receded into the back of his mind, but something still didn't feel quite right about the area. As he pushed himself off Owar's back, he noticed small, black figures were dotted along the horizon, spanning in a large arc in front of him. He blinked once, the silhouettes disappearing as quickly as they had come into existence.

"_It's getting worse," _Nila thought to himself, checking his effects to see if they were still firmly fastened to his belt. Ashen lay dormant at his left, while his spellbook emblazoned with the Mark of Grima was still clipped securely to his right. His knapsack somehow managed to stay attached to his back, as well. "_Three weeks without incident, but as soon as these guys show up they come back again."_

"I told you they were bad news," Other Nila's voice rang out suddenly, his chastising tone appearing from behind him. Nila glanced backwards, but was only met with the sun setting over the endless sea of sand.

"Quiet, you."

If Other Nila had limbs, he probably would have shrugged before disappearing into nothingness once again. And with that, Nila's mind was quiet. The hushed voices constantly present at the back of his mind had receded along with Other Nila's dominating tone.

The moments were few and far between when Other Nila decided to show up, but he had gotten quite used to them when he was calmly relaxing at home alone. But when the Justice Brigade showed up, the voices returned in full force along with hallucinations.

Nila shoved the thought from his consciousness, focusing on regaining his bearings. He was on the ground, and night was falling. In the center of the desert—where they probably were judging by the flat, expansive sands—potential for freezing was at a minimum, so outdoor camping wouldn't be as large of a risk.

"_On the subject of camping," _Nila pondered, his eyes wandering along the horizon, "_Where have they set up?"_

Turning around, Nila was faced with what he could only describe as a miracle. A beautiful, wondrous miracle. Six large canvas wall tents were immaculately set up surrounding a large, roaring fire pit. The Brigadiers set up several stones around it, and Chast was cooking something over the flame on a large, metal grate. Shifting his gaze to Owar, Nila tugged at her reins and led her towards the camp as she begrudgingly followed.

As he walked through the now-cooling sand, Nila felt a presence behind him. As if something was following him. He stole a glance backward, seeing nothing once again. He sighed, frustrated with how his ailment had returned unexpectedly and forcefully.

"_Almost like how the Justice Brigade showed up."_

He laughed to himself, imagining Marius' antics and Matt's affable personality. From the little time he had spent with the group, Nila already felt as if he was part of a family; a feeling he had not experienced for years.

"_No more mistakes this time,"_ he promised himself, his grip on Owar's reins tightening, "_I'll see to it that we all get home safely. Wherever we may end up."_

Nila continued to walk through the flat desert sand, the frigid air abating as he approached the warm licks of flame roaring in the fire pit. The Justice Brigadiers were carrying on a conversation about something Nila did not understand as he unhanded Owar and sat upon a vacant, flat stone and set his knapsack aside.

After listening for a while, he eventually caught on to the fact that they were discussing their imminent arrival to Abnorun. Matt led the conversation, while Valkus did not go often without interjecting. Chast listened respectfully, still tending to the skewered meat sizzling atop the metal grate, while Marius expanded and contracted arcs of magical electricity in the palm of his hands. Whether or not he was paying attention, Nila could not tell.

Across from him sat the final member of the Justice Brigade, dressed in an ominously black tunic with equally dark leather chaps and shoulder pads. Hunter. The swordmaster was staring directly at him, his eyes narrowed and his lips pursed. The orange glow from the fire accentuated his facial features, making him appear all the more menacing.

Nila was instantly able to place his facial expression as one of distrust and suspicion. An expression that Nila was unfortunately all too accustomed to. As Nila returned his gaze, a familiar image seemed to overlay the swordmaster's face, recognition immediately dawning upon the tactician.

* * *

_Pushing a quill across a large map, Nila wrote an outline for their newest mission. They had been commissioned to act as guardsmen for the village of Holmfirth in the central Plegian desert for several days, who had been under fire from bandits in the prior weeks. Nila marked another X, drawing a thin line close to the city wall to mark the patrol route for one of his mercenaries._

_Sensing movement in the door frame, Nila glanced up only to be met with the angered expression from his senior advisor, Rais._

"_You and I are going to have a little chat, buddy," he had growled, pulling a chair back from the front of Nila's desk and throwing himself into it, "I want to know just what the _hell_you were thinking when we were dealing with the bandits in Walden."_

"_Rais, please," Nila had addressed, laying his ink-depleted quill aside, "I did the best I could. We were strongly outnumbered and they had archers on either side of us."_

"_Like hell that was your best! We lost six good men thanks to you. Those are men we aren't going to get back."_

"_I understand. No more mistakes this time. I can assure you that the company is in good hands from here on out."_

"_You said that last time, too," Other Nila had whispered, as quiet laughter rang in Nila's ears. "As a matter of fact, you always say that."_

_Rais still was not convinced, a furious expression firmly plastered onto his face. He drew a knife from his belt, stabbing it into the dark wood of the desk and launching tiny wooden shards in every direction._

"_You don't warrant the legacy of your father," the advisor sneered, pointing directly at the frightened tactician, "When he was leading us, we didn't lose anyone."_

_Rais pulled the knife from Nila's desk, clipping it to his belt. As he left, the expression upon his face was one that Nila would never forget._

The very same expression that Hunter was making especially effective usage of.

* * *

"—and now that our newest tactician has returned from the land of slumber," Nila faintly heard Matt say, "perhaps he would like to provide insight on our next move? He must have a few gold pieces worth of thought."

"Hmm?" Nila absentmindedly mumbled, still lost in thought. "Oh, Matt. Hello. I'm sorry, would you mind repeating?"

"Still haven't shaken the webs from your mind, huh?" Matt asked, a small smile playing across his lips. " That's alright. We were trying to figure out when we'd get to Abnorun and what to do when we get there. Any thoughts?"

Nila thought for a moment, glancing around him to try to determine the area they were currently in. He returned his gaze to Matt before asking, "Have you my map? I may be able to estimate the distance."

Reaching to his side, Matt picked up a large, rolled sheet of parchment and tossed it over Valkus and to him. Catching it, Nila rolled it open to reveal his wall map of Plegia.

"Based on the land around us, we're probably in the middle of the Plegian flats," he mused, pointing to the heart of the desert as it appeared on the map. "We're still well on track to make it to Abnorun. And if we've traveled this far in the course of one day…" Nila traced his finger from the Plegian shoreline where his home was to the Flats, while comparing it with the remaining distance to Abnorun before stating, "We have about a day and a half of travel remaining, more or less."

"Hell, we can probably knock that half day off if we try hard enough!" Valkus laughed, taking a swig out of a sizeable metal flask. "Whaddaya say to that, Matt? Huh?"

"Gods, how much of that stuff did you drink?" Matt snapped, tearing the canister out of her hands and overturning it into his palm. Not a single drop of liquid managed to trickle out of the flask. "What the hell, you drank the whole thing? That was 100 proof, and was going to last us the next three days!"

Valkus giggled, Matt's mood unable to scratch her disposition.

"You're just jealous that you're a lightweight."

"Who're you calling a lightweight? I'll drink you under—"

"Anyway," Chast interrupted, clapping her hands together once to demand attention, "The food is ready. This is the last of the meat we'll have until we get to Abnorun, so dig in."

Nila and the rest of the Brigadiers each grabbed a skewer of meat, digging in greedily. None of them had eaten since the previous morning, since landing on the ground put them at risk to be caught in the raging sandstorms that plague the heart of the Plegian desert. The meat itself was quite tender, if slightly under seasoned, but nevertheless disappeared quickly. While he ate, Nila noticed that Hunter still had his eyes firmly fixed on the tactician, his gaze rarely dropping.

"Now, Nila," Matt began, drawing the tactician's attention away from the swordmaster. After Valkus' departure, Matt has moved to her old rock, positioned nearest to Nila's. Out of the corner of his eye, Nila noticed Marius dragging Valkus away to the tents, who had passed out from alcohol intake. Matt, noticing this as well, added, "Don't worry, she'll be fine. That's pretty much the norm around here."

Matt laughed, his signature hearty bellow echoing throughout the flatlands. After calming himself down, he continued, "We still need to discuss what we'll do when we arrive. What are your thoughts?"

"The most important thing is finding whoever wrote that letter," Nila replied, "Did they leave any information about where to locate them?"

Matt pulled the crumpled parchment from his pocket, skimming it briefly before handing it to Nila.

"Didn't say much. Have a look if you want."

Nila took the parchment from Matt's hand, smoothing it on his knee before reading it thoroughly.

_JB—_

_I write to you dire and unfortunate news. As of late, my hometown has been consumed with distress and fear. Our protector entity has gone missing and, strangely enough, Ylissean foreigners have been seen ducking in and out of the shadows. As we are settled near the border of Ylisse, it is not uncommon for visitors to dot the city streets, but these newcomers seem much more sinister. With crime increasing ever since our manakete's disappearance, we desperately require your aid._

–_C_

"They didn't really give us much to go on, did they?" Nila muttered, folding the parchment neatly before placing it into Matt's hand. "Would it have killed them to at least tell you where to meet them? Or perhaps a name?"

"I dunno," Matt answered, shoving the paper into his pocket once again, "Maybe they have everything figured out and we just need to show up. But I've been doing some thinking about those 'sinister Ylisseans' they were talking about."

Nila nodded, thinking back to the cursory passage. "I noticed that as well. You think they might be Sons?"

"Could be. But kidnapping a manakete would seem wrong of them. After all, they're the closest thing to Naga, right?" Nila didn't respond, and shrugged blankly in anticipation for the wyvern rider to continue. "Either way, let's try to track down this 'C,' and maybe pick up a mercenary or two."

Nila stared with disbelief at the powerful man, his eyes narrowing. "Mercenaries? Do we even have the money for that kind of thing?"

"Of course," Chast added, producing a pouch of gold from her knapsack. "We do get paid for this, after all."

Nila dug into his own pack, revealing a similar pouch, except his was light and limp from the lack of coin.

"Care to share?" he mockingly pleaded, holding his empty pouch open.

Chast burst into laughter, falling off of her stone and onto the sand below. After struggling to pull herself up, she walked over to Nila, still giggling madly, and placed a single gold coin in his pouch.

"There you go," she laughed, struggling to maintain her composure, "Now start your fortune."

The camp erupted in raucous laughter, the only sound permeating the silence of the nighttime desert. The sun had completely set, the brilliant red sunset being replaced by a majestic array of stars dotting the night sky.

Eventually, the desert returned to a blissfully peaceful quiet as the Brigadiers calmed themselves down. Marius rejoined the other four, having successfully dragged Valkus and her massive suit of armor to one of the wall tents. Chast stretched, letting out an exhausted yawn.

"I believe it's time we all got some sleep. We do have an early morning, after all."

Matt cracked his neck before nodding in agreement.

"Too true," Matt agreed, Chast's yawn contagiously contributing to one of his own. "I'm off. See you all bright and early."

"Bright and early!" Marius parroted before bounding off in the direction of the tents.

Nila glanced over to where Hunter had been sitting for most of the night, only to find that he had disappeared. Strange, too, since he had been there only a moment ago. Seeing how fast the swordsman moved in battle, though, Nila understood how he was able to flee the scene so quickly.

Standing up, Nila pulled his left hand from his opposite arm. He was rubbing his sleeved arm, but for how long Nila could not remember. Shrugging, Nila slung his knapsack over his shoulder before turning to Chast, who was packing up the last of her cooking supplies.

"Hey, do you know which one's mine?" Nila inquired running a hand absentmindedly through his hair. "I wouldn't want to stumble in on Valkus."

"Third one down on the left," Chast replied, her eyes still fixed on her work, "Have a pleasant night, dear."

Nila gave her a nod, before trudging through the thin, cold sand down the rows of tents. Despite having woken up so soon, Nila felt immeasurably exhausted. His mind certainly didn't plan on making the day easy for him, though. Nila chuckled at the notion, raising his arms above his head and interlacing his fingers in a stretch.

As he neared his tent, Nila began to feel a presence surrounding him, almost suffocatingly so. He glanced to both sides which yielded nothing but a starlit sky over an endless field of blackness. Nila's face contorted with frustration over the fact that his mind still refused to leave him alone.

But was he alone?

Of course he was. Nila threw open the canvas flap separating him from the interior of the tent and stepped inside. As he entered, he was met with meager surroundings: something that appeared to be a makeshift coat tree and a small sleeping bag. Of course, Nila didn't expect much more, since their inventory was limited along with the fact that he was newly recruited. Just having a safe, secure place to rest was more than he could ask for.

Nila placed his coat upon the hanger and his knapsack below it, which fell over with a soft thump and spilled out a few of its contents. He then placed his sword blade-first into the coarse sand next to his sleeping bag and his spellbook on the opposite side. He took care to make sure both weapons were within arm's reach of his sleeping bag. He could never be too careful.

Nila pulled himself under the covers, checking once again to ensure that his weapons were still there, and then tried to concentrate on sleeping. He shut his eyes, breathed deeply, and thought to himself calming thoughts.

"_They are gone now. They are not real, and they cannot hurt you. They will depart again before you know it. Until then, try to calm down and relax."_

Nila's drowsy mind continued to toss and turn along with his body, the day's events replaying on a loop: soaring through the skies on pegasusback, Other Nila returning from a mostly dormant state, and sharing his first meal with the Justice Brigade. Eventually letting out a discontented sigh, Nila sat up in his sleeping bag and opened his eyes. Drowsily squinted at first, his eyes soon opened widely in bewilderment.

_Something_ was crouching in the far corner of his tent, glowing red eyes seeming to stare through him. Nila didn't dare to move. He focused as much as he could on the silhouette, bathed in the pitch-blackness of the tent. As his eyes became accustomed to the dark, the face staring back at him was instantly recognizable.

"Hunter, I'm warning you," Nila threatened, his fingers crawling over to his spellbook, "Whatever you're planning to do…"

Hunter shifted, still maintaining a crouched pose in the tent corner. His eyes, red and unblinking, were fully open while his neck contorted into an awkwardly crooked position. The movements were convulsive, unnatural even, as the swordmaster maintained his silent vigil.

Nila's breathing became panicked as he lifted his spellbook off of the ground and turned to the page detailing the Wind spell. A warning spell, nothing more.

"Don't take a step closer. I'm not afraid to strike you down." Despite his brave words, his voice still quavered as he stared down the apparition-like Hunter.

Hunter drew his twinblades, seeming to slide upon the floor as he slowly approached the tactician. Nila quickly pulled the Wind spell from the tome, and let it fly towards the swordmaster. He averted his gaze before the spell connected, still guilty of striking his ally even considering the circumstances. He took a breath, waited for a few moments, and turned back towards the scene.

His eyes met nothing. In place of Hunter remained only a disturbed pile of sand from the spell's impact.

"Drat, he got away," the tactician muttered, laying his spellbook back aside. "I'll have to be more—"

Only then did Nila realize the true magnitude of the situation. The glowing red eyes, the unnatural movement… he had seen these before. And once again, his fear overtook him and he lost the ability to perceive the situation logically.

Nila threw his head back onto the cushioned back of the sleeping bag in frustration before burying his face in it. The tactician forcefully shut his eyes, making an additional effort to make sure they stayed that way this time. Lest his imagination get the better of him once again. Eventually, Nila felt his consciousness ebb as his thoughts ended and his addled mind returned to deep slumber.

* * *

As morning broke over the expanse of Plegian desert, Chast pulled herself from a deep, relaxing slumber. She missed the sounds of birds delightfully chattering away as the sun rose, yet greatly appreciated the blissful silence of the desert morning. She breathed in deeply, feeling the rich desert air warm her lungs as she sat up in her sleeping bag.

Chast glanced around her tent to refamiliarize herself with her surroundings. Her violet and black Falcon Knight vestments lay across the tent floor and next to the tent flap, where she had placed them the previous night. Begrudgingly, the knight pulled herself from the comforting warmth of her bedroll and began to equip her armor, wishing for a chance to bathe all the while. Her light violet tunic came first, followed shortly by the midnight-black chestguard and pauldrons.

She briefly considered equipping her similarly jet-black armored headdress, but decided to let the ornamental armor be for the moment. Simply preparing a light breakfast wouldn't require her full battle regalia, after all. Giving the headpiece a final glance, Chast pushed the light tent flap open and stepped into the desert outside.

The sun had only just begun to peak over the horizon, the flat lands providing a picturesque view of the pastel-orange sunrise. The beige sand burned a fiery red in the morning light while still appearing a charcoal black further west.

The blazing morning sunlight seemed to produce its own smoky smell, as if its roaring fire was blazing in front of her. As she glanced down the row of tents, she noticed a thin column of smoke rising from the fire pit that she had dug earlier yesterday evening. Someone had apparently woken before her.

As she walked from her tent on the far right towards the fire, her thoughts immediately turned to Nila. Matt and Marius had never been terribly early risers, Hunter spent his mornings meditating, while Valkus was probably sleeping off her hangover.

"_Delightful,"_ she thought, a grin forming across her lips, "_Someone to spend time with me in the mornings!"_

As she approached the roaring fire, her suspicions were confirmed as she noticed the familiarly dark-coated man sitting upon the farthest rock from the fire. He was curled up, his arms hugging his legs, while his blade and spellbook lay to his immediate left.

As she sat upon her own stone and gave the tactician a small wave, she noticed something wasn't quite right. Nila was completely motionless. He stared into the fire, his body as still and unblinking as the rock he sat upon. She gave his spellbook a glance, which lay open to a page with 'Fire' marked in a scratchy scrawl.

Worry guiding her movements, Chast rose from her stone and gave Nila a slight push. The impulse seemed to spur the tactician to life, as he blinked once and and turned to her with an exhausted expression.

"…Chast?" he blinked, trying to focus his vision to her face, "Hello. What are you doing up so late?"

"Late?" she asked, tilting her head to the side quizzically, "Dear, it's sunrise. I woke to make some breakfast before we take off for the day."

Nila slowly turned his head to the east, his eyes adjusting to the sunlight. He gave a contemplative hum before simply whispering, "So it is." The prospect of the sun rising so suddenly didn't seem to faze him. Nila slowly turned his head back to meet Chast's gaze before explaining,

"I came out here to do a patrol. I thought I heard some noises, and you never know when bandits might show up. Needed to clear my head, too." Nila paused briefly, giving the roaring fire another glance before continuing, "Then I made a fire. It's been… how long now since I made this?"

Nila trailed off, giving the back of his head an inquisitive scratch before falling silent. He was staring at Chast, as if expecting her to say something.

"I came to make some breakfast," she repeated, clasping her hands together over her chest, "Would you like to help?"

"Breakfast?" Nila asked, as if the concept was foreign to him. After a moment, insight dawned upon him and his eyes seemed to light up. "Oh! Yes, breakfast. It's that time of day. What's on the menu?"

"We still have a few potatoes left. We could roast those."

"Excellent. Let's get to it, then."

– – –

Chast rotated her skewer over the roaring fire, letting the flames lick the skin of the large potato. Nila imitated her motion, making sure to evenly bathe his own in the warmth of the flames.

"Now, if I had some olive oil I'd bathe the potatoes in it beforehand so the salt sticks," Chast explained as she laid her finished potato aside before replacing it with another, "But my cooking supplies have been running thin ever since we left Arctine in southwestern Ferox. Does Abnorun have a wide selection of culinary items?"

"I've only ever visited in my youth," Nila responded, giving his potato another turn, "But it's the biggest town in eastern Plegia. I don't think it should be too much of an issue to find anything there."

Chast's striking red eyes lit up in excitement.

"You think so? I've just been so inspired since I got to cook back at your house…" Chast trailed off as something came to her mind as she approached the subject of Nila's residence. After she noticed Nila staring at her inquisitively, she continued, "Which… reminds me. Are you… doing alright, dear? You seem slightly out of sorts ever since we left."

Chast noticed Nila immediately flinch and avert his gaze as she brought up the topic, but she believed it was something that needed addressing. From his incoherent muttering to his apparent lack of sleep, something was definitely troubling the man. Eventually, Nila met her gaze and softly spoke,

"It's… nothing that needs to be worried about. Stress just messes with my mind a little. Give me a few days and I should be okay." Chast noticed Nila chose his words carefully as he spoke articulately, every letter being decisively chosen. A trait most often utilized by liars. Chast was not about to call Nila out on lying so early into their friendship, so she pushed her intuition aside and instead sighed deeply.

"I understand," Chast said, her tone neutral. She did not want Nila to perceive what she said as doubtful or suspicious. "This didn't exactly come with warning, after all. But perhaps it would have been better if we let you be at your home instead of bringing you along."

Nila shook his head, removing a slightly-burned potato from the fire before replacing it with another.

"No, it's all right. I wouldn't have left if this wasn't something that I wanted to do. With the Sons probably involved in the crisis at Abnorun, this is as much my responsibility to rectify as it is yours."

"Very fair. Those cultists seem to have a vendetta against you as well, so it is probably safer for you to be accompanying us than for you to be in your home alone. But please, Nila, if something is ever the matter, let me know. I only judge the wicked."

Nila chucked, a quiet "thanks" escaping his lips before he returned to tending his potato.

Chast let her gaze fall upon Nila once more as he concentrated on roasting his potato evenly. Nila definitely seemed troubled or agitated, that much was certain, but Chast could not identify what the problem was. Perhaps she was overthinking everything and stress was the root of his issue. She quietly sighed, letting her final potato rest adjacent to the other two as she reached for her boot knife to slice the starchy root into pieces.

As she let the blade fall against the potatoes, Chast could not help but wonder what exactly was occurring in Nila's mind. Perhaps it was not her business to be involved, but whether it was her internal sense of justice or idle curiosity changed nothing. She was determined to discover the cause of his problems, whatever they may be. No matter how long it would take for him to come clean.

* * *

The wagon clattered slowly down the stone path as intense sunlight from above began to melt the layer of snow covering the surrounding land. As it rode over one final hill, a terrible sight made itself manifest. Desmond, riding atop Ranofer, called back to the white-robed priest daydreaming behind him.

"Samuel, wake Lester. This sight… it isn't pretty."

Snapping back to reality from his reverie, Samuel only needed one look at the horizon before he nodded swiftly and disappeared back into the wagon.

Desmond had denied the destructive power of Eastern Ferox many times before. He had seen damages done to other settlements by the conquering nation, but they had never committed anything to this scale.

Stormguard, which Lester had recounted as a shining beacon of the lowland taiga Western settlement, stood no more than a smoldering pile of ashes on the horizon. The central clock tower that Lester had told stories of did not appear at all, presumably brought to rubble like the rest of the city.

A sharp gasp from behind him alerted Lester's presence to the taguel. Lester must have been more taken aback than any in their group, and his body language did not allude to otherwise. He stared unblinkingly at the horizon, as if he was trying to comprehend the fact that the settlement was no more. Desmond heard the paladin swallow nervously before clearing his throat.

"Everyone," he announced, his emotions refusing to bleed into his speech, "We are here. As soon as we approach the town, I want everyone to fan out and search for survivors. Samuel, have you still the Rescue gem that you can attach to your staff?"

The priest nodded before producing a small, green orb from within his vestments.

"I don't know how long it will last, but I'll try. It should still be able to react to human life force as well."

Samuel replaced the pristine red healing orb in his staff with the smaller green sphere, which burst to life as it reacted to the magic in the staff. As it began to glow, deep cracks appeared along the surface, spanning across the orb like a cavernous ravine. Despite its damage, the orb managed to stay in one piece.

Esthara inspected the orb, running a finger across the fissure left across its surface.

"Fortunately, it still has the capacity for at least one more cast," she remarked, drawing her hand back carefully, "We'll need to be careful not to subject it to any more unnecessary damage."

Samuel nodded his head in agreement, carefully removing the orb from his staff and stowing it away in his robes. He reapplied the healing orb, which sprang to life with a pristine crimson glow.

"We'll be arriving shortly," Lester remarked, stepping back into the interior of the wagon, "Remember to stay on guard. Bandits may be afoot."

As Lester disappeared into the wagon, Samuel and Esthara followed suit. However, Brooks stayed put, his legs dangling over the edge of the wagon's front.

"So, this is Stormguard, huh?" he asked himself, his voice carrying a mixture of regret and pity, "Wonder what it looked like in its prime."

"I suppose neither of us will ever figure it out," Desmond replied, turning back to the mage, "But what's important now is finding survivors. Maybe that Carolyn girl is still trapped in there."

"Carolyn…" Brooks muttered, attempting to place the importance of the name. Eventually, he raised his eyebrows in recognition. "Ah, the sister of that mage we met back at the tavern. I remember."

"Though… I'm not certain. By the looks of it, no one could have made it out of that death trap alive," Desmond said, taking in the horror of the site as the gates drew ever closer. On the pathway up the hill leading to the town's entrance, the remains of destroyed siege engines littered the ground. Black pitch covered the white snow like oil across a surface of water. Enormous ballista bolts pincushioned the ground outside the outer walls, while cast-iron cannon shots were buried halfway in the blackened snow.

Brooks let his eyes fall upon every one of the sights, his mouth hanging agape. In this moment, Desmond remembered that the mage was not yet acquainted with the wholesale destruction that he had seen several times before. Try as he may, though, Desmond could not help but imitate the gesture. The East had pulled out every stop that could be tampered with. Someone had tried very hard to make sure that this settlement was reduced to rubble.

Desmond commanded Ranofer to stop with a gentle pull on her reins, then dismounted the majestic horse and disconnected her from the trace. He quickly gave his gratitude to the horse before turning his attention to Lester, who had exited the wagon along with Esthara, Brooks, and Samuel.

"Brooks, you accompany Samuel," Lester ordered, taking Ranofer's reins in hand, "Desmond, Esthara, and I will search on the opposite side of town. Shout if you need assistance, we should be able to hear you with Desmond's help. Let's get moving."

* * *

Samuel held his staff in both hands, the damaged Rescue orb atop its shaft producing a soft, comfortingly green light that lit up the ash and soot still floating in the air. Brooks stood several paces back, an Elfire spell at the ready in case of danger.

The two found themselves in what appeared to be the remains of the town's mercantile district. Spoiled produce and other goods were littered across the ground, the lighter objects blowing in the light breeze. Several small fires still burned in areas less open to wind and snow, creating a thin layer of smoke to accompany the floating ash particles.

Brooks stepped over a fallen stone pillar, closing his spellbook and clipping it to his side.

"I don't think anyone besides us is here," Brooks observed, his gaze slowly shifting across the town. "The East really did a number on this place, huh?"

"On the town, yes," Samuel replied, tightening his grip on his staff, "But I haven't seen any bodies yet. Perhaps everyone escaped."

"Optimistic as ever, I see. Has your staff found anything yet?"

"Afraid not," the priest sighed before pointing to the green sphere atop his staff. "This orb will light up brighter if we come across another person. It's glowing faintly right now since it only senses us."

"That's interesting. Why does it work that way?"

"It draws magic from the staff in order to displace a person in space. It rests when no people are nearby or when disconnected from a source of magical—"

Samuel jumped backwards as several wooden shingles fell from a nearby merchant building, clattering across the ash-covered ground as they landed.

"Gods, this place is still coming apart!" Samuel exclaimed, "We'll need to hurry. This place might come down over our heads if we're not quick enough."

"That was just some roofing," Brooks reassured, ruffling the priest's shoulder-length red hair, "Calm down. We'll be okay."

"If you're certain, I suppose…"

The two continued through the thin streets of the town, stepping over the ruined stone bricks and cannon shots. Eventually the two came across a rather large ballista shot, impaled into the ground in front of a collapsed alleyway. The shot lay undisturbed by the destruction surrounding it, and lay immobile with a thick layer of snow lightly dusting its wooden body.

"How many more of these do you think the East has?" Brooks asked, gently rubbing his hand across the polished-wooden surface. His hand displaced some of the snow, creating a handprint-shaped indent in the thin white powder.

"Enough to bring down a large town, I suppose."

The two were silent for a time, marveling in the destructive beauty of the bolt. Samuel turned towards the alleyway before walking towards the cave-in to investigate.

"Look here. They brought that entire tower down on on this alleway… Wait a moment." Samuel stared at the green orb atop his staff, which was glowing intensely. Samuel's heart skipped a beat as he gasped, "Brooks, I think I've found someone!"

Brooks ran to Samuel's side, kneeling in front of the wreckage.

"You're saying that there's someone in here?!" Brooks shouted, gazing into the Rescue orb atop Samuel's staff. "Gods, it can't be! No one could have survived that!"

"That's what I thought too. But by the looks of it, we're both wrong. Call for Lester and the others. I'll see if I can't get them out."

Brooks nodded, taking off down the street towards the opposite side of town. Samuel took a deep breath before pacing backwards from the ruin. He held the staff above his head, channeling additional magic into the rod in order to activate the power of the orb. The Rescue gem began to glow a blinding white as the spell began to cast. The rubble adopted a similar glow before both faded to darkness, a large bundle appearing before the priest's feet. As the man appeared, Samuel briefly heard a cracking sound before the Rescue gem shattered to pieces.

A slightly musclebound, brown-haired man who looked no older than eighteen lay before him, wrapped in a tattered mantle of red. He was clutching a gold-bladed axe, tightly wrapping his arms around the hilt of the weapon. He was breathing, but only barely. And from what Samuel could tell, suffered some minor head trauma, revealed by the blood running down his face.

Samuel heard quick footsteps approach behind him, accompanied by the clattering of hooves. He turned, confirming that the other four had arrived.

"Lester, make space on your horse. This man needs healing, and fast."

* * *

A pen moved meticulously across the delicate pages of a small, black journal. The writer pushed a lock of maroon hair from in front of one of her eyes as she began the final paragraph of her log entry.

"_As I write this, I am still on the move, this time heading towards Plegia—specifically, Abnorun. I haven't been there since a little bit after my mother died, so I wonder if there's any work for me there. I guess I'll just have to find out for myself once I get there."_

She signed her name, as she did after each passage, and placed the small book in her knapsack. She shivered as a cold, desert-night wind danced across her shoulders, pulling her dark-blue coat tighter to abate the chill. Her fire had devolved into little more than embers, and she had expended the last of her kindling to bring these pathetic cinders to life.

The young myrmidon had little more than hope to rely on the past few years. She had fortunately managed to stay out of the trouble these past few years have brought. Guarding officials, selling her sword, and occasionally stealing were far easier than being subject to the Sons of Naga who had been making leaps and bounds in her homeland recently, or being in the presence of the everlasting civil war up north.

She glanced to the west, taking in the lights shining just over the horizon. The beacon of her salvation shone iridescently, standing tall and bright amongst the low, dark desert lands. She was nearly there, and with it came another chance to mete out at least an average living. Abnorun lay close.

* * *

**Roster**

**No.001 Nila**

A resident of Plegia and descendent of one of the famous time travelers of Ylissean past, Morgan. Although weakly, he carries the same blood of Grima used to revive the fell dragon generations ago. He was a tactician for the Plegian Mercenaries in the past, who eventually dissolved under his leadership.

The most likely fall asleep while reading.

Born on December 20th, age 24.

Class: Tactician (**Sword**|**Anima**, **Dark** from Shadowgift)

**No.002 Matthew**

The leader of a group of fighters known as the Justice Brigade, who prefers the name Matt. He brought the group together after he and Hunter fled a devastated city in Western Ferox, one of the first Western settlements destroyed by the marauding nation. His confident personality is what the Justice Brigade's foundation stands upon, yet he harbors doubts of his own sometimes.

The one who slouches the most.

Born on January 2nd, age 21.

Class: Wyvern Lord (**Axe**|Lance)

**No.003 Hunter**

A Feroxian duelist with a deadly mastery of swordplay. He has lived in not one, but two villages that have been razed by magic-wielding bandits or conquesting Easterners. The loss of his sister invoked a keen sense of justice within him and a fear of magic and fire.

The least fond of parlor tricks.

Born on January 25th, age 22.

Class: Swordmaster (**Sword**)

**No.004 Chastity**

An Ylissean Falcon Knight—who prefers to go by Chast—with pale white skin and red eyes. Her albinism runs in the family, being shared with her father. She had high hopes of joining the Ylissean cavalry, yet was advised to pursue a separate line of work by her father. She instead took up work as a mercenary, and eventually met Matt after he saved her life.

The one with the scariest glare.

Born on October 29th, age 17.

Class: Falcon Knight (**Lance**|**Staff**)

**No.005 Marius**

A peculiar fighter hailing from Stormguard. Initially striving to be a scholar, Marius studied magic diligently throughout his childhood. However, he shifted priorities when bands of rogue dark mages attacked the settlement. With his interesting combination of swords, Anima, and throwing axes, he joined the enthusiastic Justice Brigade to put his skills to the test.

The one with the worst sense of humor.

Born on April 1st, age 20.

Class: Dread Fighter (**Sword**|**Axe**|**Anima**)

**No.006 Valkus**

A Valmese quartermaster who tolerates nonsense of no kind. After a false claim of fraudulence, Valkus chartered a ship to the Ylissean continent. She joined the Justice Brigade after falling to them in a battle to mete out justice for herself and others. How this beauty's personality meshes with the jovial brigade is a mystery.

The most likely to enjoy taking inventory.

Born on March 25th, age 28.

Class: General (**Lance**|Axe)

**No.007 ?**

…

**No.008 Lester**

A seasoned veteran and guardian of Ylissean royalty. Lester began his training for knighthood at the young age of seven. He failed to protect the lord he was sworn to from a powerful East Feroxian warlord. He formed the Ylissean Vanguard in an attempt right the mistakes that he brought upon the halidom.

The longest bather.

Born on May 15th, age 20.

Class: Paladin (**Sword**|**Lance**)

**No.009 Desmond**

One of the rare taguel who bounced back from the brink of extinction. Desmond is one of the few taguel who have refused to their cultural roots of warren life. He trained under a man who fought against the Gray Claw, a taguel purist society that threatened his home. He refuses to use his beaststone.

The one with the biggest rock collection.

Born on August 8th, age 19.

Class: Taguel Fighter (**Axe**|Beaststone)

**No.010 Samuel**

An Ylissean priest of minor nobility. His rigorous education led him to priesthood, where he trained in the Holy Church of Naga to heal his allies. After being denied entry to the Ylissean military, he was recruited by Lester to heal for the Ylissean Vanguard.

The best at insulting others.

Born on July 14th, age 21.

Class: Scholar (**Staff**|**Anima**)

**No.011 Brooks**

A mage of Ylissean background that has traveled the world across. With his traveling mage caravan, he saw the shores of Valm, the peaks of both Feroxes, the sands of Plegia, and the rolling hills of Ylisse. Longing to be greater than an entertainer, he left his caravan to create his own adventures.

The one with dirt on absolutely everyone.

Born on March 10th, age 25.

Class: Mage (**Anima**)

**No.012 Esthara**

An Ylissean tactician in training. She wields the legendary weapon Mercurius, one of the three regalia of old, given to her as a gift by her professor. Studying under the legendary tactician and professor Kairos, she aims to one day match the intellectual might of the most famous tacticians in history.

The lightest sleeper.

Born on November 19, age 19.

Class: Strategist (**Sword**)


	7. 4: Abnorun

The still night air of the badlands at the Plegian-Ylissean border was interrupted as a powerful wyvern and a graceful pegasus descended from above. In a flurry of dust and sand, five of the six passengers quickly dismounted and stretched after staying still for the entirety of the day. The sixth, draped in a coat of black, remained fast asleep in spite of the excitement around him.

The Justice Brigade stood at the gates of Abnorun, shrouded from view by the encompassing, steep hills surrounding the area. In the dark of night, the normally beige sandstone walls glowed a warm orange in the torchlight. Several soldiers sporting traditional black light armor with purple eye-highlights on the arm pieces patrolled the upper walls, the dim torchlight reflecting off their metal shoulder pads. Compared to both Feroxes and Ylisse, security was surprisingly lax.

Matt grasped his wyvern's reins and led the powerful wyvern drake towards the stables situated near the town gates. The stables were lightly occupied, the sole resident being a chestnut horse lazily grinding hay between its molars. The wyvern lazily strolled through the stable gates, giving a curious sniff at the startled mare as he passed by. As he reached the far corner of the enclosure, he tucked his massive wings beneath him and fell to the hay-covered stable floor, a flurry of straw rising up around the giant beast.

The stable owner gave the giant beast an uninterested glance before returning to pitchforking a pile of hay.

"Folks don't bring wyverns around these parts much anymore," he drawled, impaling the farming tool into the haystack and shifting his gaze to Matt, "'Fraid I'll have to charge you extra for stable space and upkeep."

"Not a problem," Matt replied, tossing a modest pouch of gold into the old man's hand.

"And you, miss? You gonna put your pegasus up for the night? I'll have to charge you extra for the boy if he's gonna stay too."

The stable owner pointed at Nila, who was still slouched over on Owar's back, sleeping peacefully. Chast placed a hand to her chest and sighed softly.

"No, I believe he will be coming with us," Chast assured, "Matt, if you would?"

The burly man gave a nod, and gently lifted the dozing tactician from Owar's back and slung him over his shoulder like a wet towel. The pegasus seemed to sigh with relief as the burden was removed from her back, and allowed the elderly stable owner to lead her into the enclosure.

The stable owner poured the contents of the coin purse into his hand, dutifully counting each one.

"There should be enough coin in there for both," Matt said, "Make sure Bob gets a beefsteak twenty minutes after he wakes up, or he might get a little agitated. He also likes to be scratched under the chin."

"Bob?" the old man inquired, placing the sixteen coins into his pocket.

"The wyvern. Don't you laugh, or I won't be giving you a tip when we come back."

"I won't, son. I won't."

Matt huffed, giving the old man a forced wave as he turned to follow the Brigadiers through the massive wooden gates of Abnorun.

After the stablehand made sure the six had turned the corner into the town, fished a coin out of his pocket and he bit the end to check its authenticity. As expected, the coin proved to be legitimate, a layer of gold coating a distinctly copper interior. He shoved the gleaming coin back into his pocket and laid his cheek against his fist.

"What in the hell kinda name is Bob, anyway? Damned children…"

– – –

"What do you mean all the rooms are booked?!"

Matt slammed his fist on the counter angrily, rattling the empty mugs of ale abandoned by the nighttime patrons. The unconscious tactician slung over his shoulder stirred briefly, muttering something incoherent before returning to a deep sleep. The young innkeeper held her hands up defensively, visibly rattled much like her glass mugs.

"I'm sorry, sir. Abnorun is a popular destination 'round this time of year. I'm afraid there's nothing I can do."

"What could be so important that the _entire_ town doesn't have an empty bed?" The burly wyvern rider turned from the flustered innkeeper, pinching his forehead in frustration. "This is the _fourth_ inn…"

"You mean you don't know?" the innkeeper asked incredulously, running a hand through her long blonde hair, "The Autumn Queen Meliora is making an address in a few days' time at the foot of the royal embassy. Isn't that why you're here…?"

"No, ma'am. We had no idea," Valkus piped up, pushing the enraged Matt to the side. "I suppose we'll just be on our way, then. Have a pleasant evening."

Matt began to protest, but the general pinched his ear firmly, dragging his head down to her level.

"_We're leaving,_" Valkus hissed, spitting acid. She dragged Matt behind her as she forced the heavy wooden inn door open. Matt stared helplessly at the other three as he struggled to keep Nila balanced on his shoulder while being dragged around by the enraged Valkus.

"How the hell does she do that?" Marius asked in awe to no one in particular. Hunter offered a shrug before Valkus and Matt rounded the corner of the inn door, the three disappearing from sight.

As the two stepped into the cool night air Valkus released her iron grip briefly before pinning the bulky man to the inn wall, her face contorted with rage. Matt struggled to reach to his ear and massage the pain away.

"You can't just _yell_ at young girls like that," Valkus chastised as she pushed herself away from Matt, crossing her arms and turning away from the wyvern rider. "You scared the poor thing half to death!"

Matt threw his hands in the air in surrender while a defeated expression played across his face.

"Hey, it isn't my fault that all the inns are booked! Don't I have a right to be frustrated?"

"It wasn't her's either!" Valkus shouted as she turned back towards Matt, her anger increased twofold. Her long, disheveled black hair tumbled over her left eye, but did little to hide her expression of fury. "I swear, if you weren't our leader I would gut you right now."

"Alright, alright. Calm down, please. We'll keep looking for another inn, no more yelling this time."

Valkus took in a large breath before releasing it in a heavy sigh. Her anger seemed to abate slightly as her shoulders fell to a more relaxed position.

"…Fine. Come on, then."

Matt snuck a glance back to the inn door, which was surprisingly still shut tightly. He could have sworn he saw the others following behind him and Valkus…

But Matt simply shrugged to himself and turned back to the impatient Valkus. But to Matt's surprise, she wasn't standing in front of him anymore. Instead, the heavily-armored woman was several paces down the brick path, standing motionless as she stared down the shadowed street.

Matt was quick to fall in beside her, and he threw her a questioning look. Valkus remained silent, throwing a hand over the wyvern rider's mouth.

"Look there," she whispered, using her free hand to point further down the road. At first, Matt couldn't see anything besides a road enveloped in darkness, but as he focused he was able to discover the source of Valkus' concern. A dark robed figure was standing at the mouth of a side street, completely motionless. His head pricked up from underneath his hood, and turned to the two standing alone in the middle of the main street. Matt felt his hand instinctively reach for his axe.

The robed figure seemed to glide across the darkness as he slowly inched toward Matt and Valkus. Matt felt as if he was rooted to the spot. Unable to move, and unable to draw his axe. After a moment, the figure was upon them, and he spoke in an inquisitive, yet lilting voice.

"Hmm. There are only two of you."

Hearing soft voices approach from behind him, Matt turned to see Chast, Marius, and Hunter approaching the scene. The hooded figure must have noticed as well, as he clasped his hands together while a smile played across the visible portion of his face.

"Excellent. The five of you are all accounted for, and you've brought a friend."

"Just who are you, kid?" Matt asked, suspicion tinging his voice. The dark-robed figure nodded, pulling his black hood down to reveal an ashy-brown face, not at all different from Nila's, adorned with an ivory-white face mask. His chocolate-brown hair was peppered with locks of white.

"Forgive my manners. My name is Christopher. I am the one who wrote you the summons that called you here."

Matt mulled over Christopher's statement for a moment. Insight passed through his mind, and his brow lowered into a scowl. "So _you're_ the one who has no damned idea how to write a letter! Do you know how much trouble we went through to even find where you wanted us to go?"

"I apologize," he sighed, bowing his head low, "But ink is a precious commodity for someone of my… financial standing. I was also pressed for time, you understand."

"Alright, alright. Fine," Valkus interrupted, shoving her way between Matt and the mysterious boy, "Let's talk business. What do you want from us?"

"Plenty of time, dear Valkus. But first, I assume you all would appreciate a warm fire and a place to sleep for the night?"

– – –

"By, 'place to sleep for the night' I had something a little more… you know… _soft_ in mind."

Matt gazed with disappointment down a small, shadowed alleyway. He assumed that the dark mage would have owned a decent-sized house based on his aristocratic manner of speaking, but Chris appeared to be quite at home in the alleyway as he crouched in front of well-used firepit and retrieved a firestarter from the pocket of his star-blue tunic.

"Unfortunately, I am homeless," Christopher deadpanned in response to Matt's complaint as he struck a white rock with his starter. Tiny sparks danced through the air, igniting on the small pile of wood and badland grasses placed into the fire pit. "We all cannot afford warm homes and pillows, you understand. I spent the last few precious coin on the ink and paper crumpled in your back pocket."

Matt reached into his pocket, and retrieved the aforementioned crushed parchment. The letter seemed to emit a dying cough before riding a strong gust of wind into the moonlight.

"How did you…"

"Intuition, I suppose," Christopher interrupted, "I'm quite proficient at understanding people's personalities at a glance. You, for example, are loud, aggressive, and quite fond of your muscles."

"Hey! I like small, furry animals, too. That's just an unfair generalization."

"But I _was _correct about the other three, wasn't I?" Christopher said with a knowing smirk.

"…I think that's enough for me today."

Matt laid his axe against the alleyway wall while he placed the dozing Nila down gently in a small alcove in the alleyway wall. He sighed, resting the back of his head against the cold stone.

"Gods… for such a scrawny guy, that Nila sure is heavy."

Matt allowed himself to slide down the stone wall until he was in a sitting position next to the unconscious Nila. He glanced around as the other four claimed spaces in the cramped alleyway his eyes beginning to close from the exhaustion of flying over the course of the whole day.

Letting his gaze wander further down the shadowy corridor, he began to wonder how Christopher was able to survive in such a dark, depressing place. The stone-bricked pathway was caked with a thick layer of dust that blew into the air as frequent gusts of wind rushed through the narrow area.

Suddenly, however, a light to his left caught his eye, and he snapped to attention. He turned towards Nila, noticing that a soft purple glow was creeping out from under the collar his dark coat. He drew back the fabric slowly.

Underneath was an odd-looking symbol etched into the back of Nila's neck, pulsing slowly with a soft, purple glow. Matt stared perplexedly at the symbol before remembering its origins.

The Mark of Grima.

"Damn. I guess he wasn't kidding about being a Fellblood." Matt murmured before drawing Nila's coat back over the pulsing symbol.

"The Mark of Grima is actually quite similar to the Brand of the Exalt," a soft voice spoke, snapping the wyvern rider back to attention. He slowly turned his head towards the voice, and found himself to be face to face with Christopher.

"Huh? When'd you get there?" Matt asked, rubbing his eyes. "Weren't you over there a second ago?"

"You were staring at your friend thoughtfully, yet with puzzlement. I simply had to investigate." Chris explained, a small smile playing across his lips. "Especially after you brought up the topic of the Fellblood."

"Not exactly the first thing I would do, but alright," Matt said with a shrug. "You were saying, Christopher?"

Christopher looked momentarily confused, pressing his lips together thoughtfully. He let out a soft hum before nodding and continuing.

"Almost every Fellblood has a Mark of Grima somewhere on their body. The holy blood of Naga in the veins of the Ylissean Exalt produces the Brand, while the corrupted blood of Grima produces the Mark. It is remarkable how many similarities the two have, actually."

"That's all well and good," the wyvern rider said, narrowing his gaze and crossing his arms tightly, "But how do you know all this?"

"The blood of the fell dragon did not only flow down one lineage," the masked dark mage returned, "I myself carry Fell blood, as do a surprising number of Plegian people in this day and age."

"You too?" Matt marveled, his arms falling limply to his sides. For several moments, only the sounds of violent gusts of wind against the sturdy Plegian buildings could be heard. Matt looked the young dark mage up and down several times, his face contorting into an expression of confusion before he asked, "In that case, where's yours, then?"

"Err… my what?" Christopher asked with feigned confusion. His ordinarily high-class mannerisms and speech momentarily faded away, his straight back slouching and his brow raising. Matt couldn't tell, but he assumed that the dark mage's eyes had widened in shock. The moment passed, and the sophisticated Christopher that Matt had become acquainted with returned to the forefront of his visage.

Christopher coughed once to clear his throat before reiterating, "I am not certain that is something I should be showing you. We have only just met, after all."

"Is it really that big of a deal?" Matt asked with an impassive face.

"Why, _of course_ it is a 'big deal!'" Christopher exclaimed, "Do you even understand the stigma against the Mark of Grima? The symbol of the _very creature_ that attempted to destroy society as we know it? It's like flying a flag bearing the words 'I am evil' written in large letters! Your friend probably understands this as well."

"…Right," Matt winced after Christopher's tongue-lashing. A heavy silence fell upon the two again, and Matt let his gaze wander down the dim alleyway. The rest of his friends were all retired into various nooks and crannies all across the thin stretch of brick pavement, or at least Matt assumed they were. The thick shadows enveloping their makeshift resting area reduced visibility to near nothingness. Only Christopher was visible through the engulfing darkness.

The dark mage rested his back against the wall to the immediate right of Matt, softly exhaling through his nose. Through both the darkness and the mage's mask, Matt could not accurately identify his emotions. But based on his body language, Matt could tell something was eating at the young spellcaster.

"You want to tell me more about the Fellblood?" Matt spoke assuringly, resting a comforting hand on Christopher' black sleeve, "I'm all ears."

"Certainly," Christopher answered. He attempted to conceal his emotions, something that the mage was quite proficient at, but Matt could tell that the dark mage had brightened somewhat. "Plenty of Fellblood exist, but many of them have been executed recently by that self proclaimed 'holy group.' I was unfortunately forced to sell my home and turn to a life of a… _vagabond_."

Christopher shuddered at the final word before slowly lowering himself to the ground in a sitting position.

"That explains why those cultists showed up at Nila's place the other day," Matt spoke in realization. "It wasn't an isolated incident. Think of all those that we didn't save… Nila would have met the same fate if we hadn't happened to be there."

"Nila?" Christopher rolled the word around in his tongue for a moment before saying, "So that is his name. I've not heard of him before. He must have hidden himself quite well."

"His library was one of few buildings for miles. I'm still not sure how the Sons managed to find him."

"The Sons of Naga have inducted members from many walks of life," Christopher added, "It would not surprise me if a former friend or ally joined and made the cult aware of his location."

After a brief pause, Christopher suddenly stood up, his robe shifting wildly from the unexpected movement and the gusts of wind beckoning through the thin alleyway. As the young man stood up, Matt noticed that Christopher's robe wasn't really a robe. It was more a large, hooded cloak than a robe. As his cloak shifted, his star-blue shirt and coal-black pants were revealed briefly.

"I suppose it is getting rather late," the mage said in a soft voice, "Tomorrow, I will inform you of my plan to deal with the threats facing Abnorun. Until then." The dark mage offered a wave, before turning around and adding, "Oh, I almost forgot. Hand me Nila's weaponry, and I will stow it in a safe place for the night."

Careful not to disturb the tactician, Matt pulled Nila's blade from its scabbard and his spellbook from its pouch and handed the two to Christopher. He jumped in mild shock as he placed his hand to Ashen's hilt, and electricity began to flow through the dark-metaled blade. The mage quickly calmed himself, however, and grabbed Matt's axe before giving Matt a firm nod and retreating into the darkness, the heavy steel blade dragging across the ground as the thin dark mage struggled to carry the weapon.

As the dark mage faded away into the black of night, Matt heard Christopher's voice call back to him.

"Call me Chris."

Sure that Christopher, or rather Chris, had left this time, Matt let out a heavy sigh and attempted to find a comfortable position on the tough stone walkway. As he found a relatively agreeable position, he gave Nila another look. He was still sleeping soundly in the alcove above him, drawing in short breaths through his nose and exhaling softly with his mouth. In the lightless night, the tactician appeared to be almost grayscale.

"I'm glad you're here, little buddy," the wyvern rider whispered, giving the tactician a final glance before shifting onto his opposite side, "'Cause I don't think I could do this on my own."

Nila shifted in his sleep, letting out a soft grunt as if in acknowledgement. Satisfied, Matt leaned his head back against the cold alleyway wall and let his mind slowly drift away with the breeze.

* * *

When Nila awoke, his face was plastered against a cold, brick ledge in a slightly dark place. The air was cool, and a sharp chill rolled up his spine as he pulled himself into a sitting position. A groan escaped his lips as he realized how stiff his back had become during the night.

As he became familiar with his surroundings, he discovered that he had been resting face-down on an elevated alcove next to a building's wall for the entire night. In an alleyway, no less. To his surprise, he was completely alone.

"Gods, what happened last night?" Nila coughed, his voice still very weak so soon after waking. He massaged the back of his neck firmly, trying to work out the tensed muscle.

"They abandoned you here and left," Other Nila whispered with a small giggle, "You should have known better than to trust them."

Nila sighed and ignored his voice, whose presence appeared to be growing from impatience. It was as if he could feel Other Nila standing beside him mockingly.

"Look!" Other Nila exclaimed, as one would to a young child, "They took Ashen and your spellbook, too. Now how are you going to protect yourself?"

Nila instinctively put a hand to his belt, and his heart dropped into his stomach as Other Nila's words rang true. His prized sword was missing from its scabbard, replaced only with a feeling of emptiness. Without his weapon at his side, Nila felt naked. Useless, even.

"Where could they have taken it?" Nila said, visibly panicked, "Gods, I should have seen this coming!"

"A pawn shop, probably. Best get looking, or else—"

"By 'it,' do you mean this?"

Other Nila's presence noticeably faltered as an unrecognizable voice rang out from behind him. He turned, the voice belonging to a younger boy who was inexplicably the same height he was. His cloak, a dark gray with a regal gold trim, contrasted heavily with the pure white mask adorning the upper portion of his face. His eyes were not visible beneath the ivory surface, two black spots instead appearing where eyeholes would normally be carved. And in his ashy-brown hands was the weapon Nila was missing.

Nila apprehensively took the blade from the boy's grasp and quickly slid it into its scabbard.

"Yes, thank you," Nila nodded, sizing up the young man. He was a Plegian dark mage, that much was definite. With a skin tone similar to Nila's and what appeared to be the dark robes befitting of dark mages, there was little doubt in his mind. Yet, at the same time, something seemed strange about the boy. It was as if they were on a similar wavelength to each other. Almost like a mutual understanding.

"You are the second of your companions to wake," he continued, offering Nila's Mark of Grima-embossed spellbook to the tactician, "Fortunately, this gives us a chance to talk. My name is Christopher. But please, call me Chris. I am the contact that called you to Abnorun."

Accepting the spellbook from the boy's hand, Nila placed the black tome into its holder attached to his belt. He replied uneasily, "So you are. In that case, where is everyone else?"

"Sleeping further down the alleyway, I'm afraid, and your friend Matthew left some time ago. It was rather late when you all arrived, after all."

"I see. And why are we in an alley to begin with? Abnorun has plenty of inns… I think."

"Ah, you must not have heard," the mage surmised, crossing his arms, "Queen Meliora is visiting. There's not a bed to be spared in the entire city."

"The Autumn Queen herself?" Nila gasped, "What for?"

"I cannot say for certain, but I'm inclined to believe for the same reason I urged the six of you here."

"The Abnorun protector entity is missing and Sons of Naga have been sighted in the area," the tactician said, finishing Chris' thought. "Am I right?"

"Precisely," Chris affirmed, "Tensions are growing, and I have little doubt that the Sons are beginning to bolster forces in the mountains outside the city. We must prepare for the coming storm."

Chris turned from Nila, his hands laced behind his back. A gentle sigh escaped his lips as he tilted his head downwards.

"But please, do not be alarmed into action just yet. Time still yet remains. Feel free to take a walk around the town. Familiarize yourself with the shops. Wander to your heart's content. Return to us when you are through."

Nila slowly nodded once before asking, "Do I… know you from somewhere? You feel… familiar to me somehow."

"We may not know each other, but our blood does," Chris responded cryptically, turning back to face Nila. The blank black circles replacing eyes on his mask seemed to bore directly into the tactician's soul.

"…Come again?"

"You are of Fell blood, correct? The symbol burned into the back of your neck says as much."

"Oh," Nila fretted, putting a hand to the back of his neck. It was warm to the touch, as it always was in the presence of dark magic. This Chris apparently had a lot of it. "So you saw, then?"

"I, no. I suppose I just had a feeling."

"That would make two of us."

A stiff breeze ran through the alley, carrying a chill not uncommon during the winter within the badlands nearest to Ylisse. The cold was not nearly as chilling as it would be in Ylisse proper, but it was enough for goosebumps to run along Nila's arms. He pulled his coat closed with a shiver.

"But I was serious about going for that walk. You are visibly stressed. Please take some time to relax and find some food. We'll be waiting for your return."

– – –

The dark-coated tactician stepped into the dim light of the Abnorun streets, the chill of the early morning wind abating slightly as the sun began to work its way over the horizon. The clouds above were tinged with a fiery scarlet as they smeared the color across the sky like an oil painting. The light was not strong enough to brighten the streets, keeping the town in a peaceful reverie. Nila cracked his neck, which had fortunately recovered from his awkward sleeping position.

Nila had never visited Abnorun, which was structured quite differently than other Plegian cities because of its location. The streets were paved with sturdy cobble rather than the usual softer sandstone, and the buildings were built in a much taller style. Nila could have easily mistaken the town as Ylissean if not for the temple-style architecture characteristic of the desert nation.

Very few were milling about in the dawn-lit Abnorun streets. A butcher struggled with a side of venison carried over his shoulder while a young boy dashed through the streets with a bag full of papers, presumably for the town crier. On the road he walked, very few shops and businesses were open.

"Watch your back," Other Nila shrieked, his voice manifesting to the right of the tactician, "He's right behind you."

Nila quickly turned, stopping dead in his tracks. His rapid breath abated slightly as he noticed that not a soul lingered on the Abnorun streets. Nila heavily sighed, both to calm himself and to express enmity to the voice before continuing down the cobbled path.

The tactician eventually found himself in what appeared to be the town's center. A stiff gust, much stronger than the light gusts that flowed through the enclosed alleyways and streets, carried a chill down from the eastern plains of Ylisse. Many small merchant stalls encircled the central fountain, and Nila noticed several were beginning to set up their displays for the day. Most worked by lamplight, illuminating the individually-designed cloth shop banners with a soft yellow glow.

Glancing around, Nila eventually laid his eyes upon a small fruit stall. The merchant behind the counter was already conducting business, bartering with a young woman draped in a dark blue cloak. Her maroon hair appeared almost black in the dark of night, but streaks of red flickered into sight in the light of the two lamps placed at either side of the stall's wooden counter.

The tall, balding man behind the counter was of Plegian descent like himself, and was loudly bartering with the cloaked woman. As he approached, he picked up bits and pieces of their conversation.

"I have some fresh southern Ylissean apples, two gold a pound," the merchant smiled, pointing to the delicious red fruits,"Or perhaps some Valmese bananas? I have those set at three gold per pound. What'll it be?"

Nila took a position at the opposite side of the counter, perusing the selection of fruits. The merchant gave him a nod before returning to business with the cloaked woman.

She pondered the merchant's offer, glowering at the meager amount of coin in the palm of her hand.

"How about one gold for the pound of apples?" the woman insisted, stuffing her paltry coinage into her cloak pocket. The merchant thought for a moment before shaking his head.

"No can do, miss. That's too low for my tastes. I'll tell you what, though. I can do two pounds for three gold. Fair deal?"

A smile played across her face as she tossed three gold coins onto the wooden counter.

"That should be fine."

As she continued business with the merchant, Nila couldn't help but study her face. She was incredibly familiar, with the specific shade of her hair tipping him off. It wasn't until he got a good look at her face, however, that her identity became apparent to his sleep-addled mind.

"Excuse me?" Nila began. The woman slowly turned to meet his gaze, looking him up and down once before responding.

"May I help you?" she said apprehensively, stowing her newly-purchased apples in her knapsack. By the tone of her voice, Nila understood that she wasn't used to interacting with strangers on a whim in the early hours of the morning.

"Is that you, Zoe? It's been far too long."

Recognition flashed across her eyes, but to Nila's surprise she shook her head slowly.

"I'm sorry, you must have mistaken me for another. My name is Grace. So sorry."

_Grace. _That's who she was. Grace hung her knapsack over her right shoulder, before stepping away from the counter.

"Grace! It's been years, and your sister has always looked a lot like you."

She turned back towards Nila with an expression of astonishment mixed with uncertainty. She looked him up and down once more, trying to remember where she might have known Nila.

"Hold on a second. You know who my sister and I are?"

Nila adopted a similarly perplexed expression, absentmindedly scratching his cheek.

"Of course," he nodded, "Your father and Zoe served under my father, Norman. The Plegian Mercenaries, remember?"

Grace processed the statement for several seconds before smacking herself in the forehead in her denseness.

"Oh gods, Nila. I'm so sorry. I completely forgot. I haven't thought about that in such a long—"

"Excuse me," the balding merchant piped up, "I have customers waiting. While this reunion is quite touching, could you _please_ take it somewhere else?"

Nila glanced around the center of trade, which was completely deserted save for a brisk, frigid breeze and the few other merchants still setting up their wares.

"There's no one here."

"…Get lost, kids."

– – –

Nila peeled apart one of the oranges that he had somehow managed to convince the displeased fruit merchant to part with while Grace snacked on one of her apples. Nila pointed out a secluded alleyway, complete with crates the two could rest on briefly while they caught up.

"What have you been up to these past few years, Nila?" Grace inquired, tossing the core of her finished apple absentmindedly behind her shoulder, smacking the wall behind her with a muffled thump.

"After my father died, I took his place as leader of the Mercenaries," Nila began, "What a terrible idea that turned out to be."

"Oh?"

"They're all gone. Every last one of them."

Grace was quiet for a moment, unsure how to properly respond. She cleared her throat before asking, "Dead, or…"

"Some dead, others missing. The point is, the Plegian Mercenaries are done for. I've been living by myself for the past three years in my mother's old library home before a couple of mercenaries picked me up the other day."

"Oh," Grace trailed off briefly, letting the weight of Nila's plight sink in before changing the subject. "I've done some traveling, doing a few odd jobs. Must have seen each corner of this continent twice now."

Nila noticed Grace was keeping her words intentionally vague, dodging specifics about her line of work. He suspected her of selling her sword based on her extensive set of equipment, as she carried a sturdy steel sword at one hip and a red-hilted blade with a wicked edge on another. Not typically equipment carried by farmhands or servants.

A lull in the conversation passed as Nila finished his orange and Grace watched the red-tinged clouds lazily float through the extensive sky. She pulled a second apple from her bag and began to contemplatively chew through the skin of the bright red fruit as Nila reignited the conversation.

"How has your sister been? You two were usually inseparable."

Grace froze mid-bite at Nila's question, and the tactician knew that he had stepped onto thin ice. The blue-cloaked woman sighed, placing her half-finished apple at her side before answering.

"I… have not seen her since my father died," Grace said, choosing her words carefully. "She loved him dearly. With all the chaos in the world, I cannot say for sure that she survived."

"Ah…" Nila stuttered, racking his brain for something comforting to say. "I'm… so sorry. How about your mother, then?"

If Nila regretted broaching the topic of Zoe, he definitely wished that he left the subject of her mother alone. Grace appeared completely broken, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. Eventually, she managed to choke out, "Sh-she… she's dead. She died in my arms over half a year ago. I buried her body myself. All I have to remember her from is this."

Grace rummaged through her knapsack and retrieved a visibly-aged Levin Sword. The leatherbound hilt had faded to a pasty tan, and the blade had been reduced to a state of complete dullness. Nila placed a hand to the hilt, with only a single small spark running along the faded yellow vein at the blade's center before petering out. It had obviously seen little action or upkeep in the past few months.

Nila was at a complete loss for words. He had somehow managed to dredge up bad memories of not one, but two deceased family members over the course of five minutes. He began to stutter out an apology, but Grace held her hand up to silence the tactician.

"I-It's okay," Grace sputtered, wiping her tan wristband across her eyes, "You had no way of knowing otherwise. Truth be told, I can barely believe it myself, being the only member of my family alive."

Grace turned her gaze skyward wistfully, letting a drawn-out sigh escape her lips before continuing.

"I still hope this is all just a dream. A terrible, terrible dream that I'll wake up from and go out training with my father and Zoe, mother waiting at home with food and drink when we were finished. Just like any other day."

She held the dulled Levin Sword tightly to her chest as her voice dwindled into a whisper. She paused, curling up atop the abandoned crate and holding her legs tightly.

"But I know that this dream will never end."

Nila let the silence sink in a moment, allowing Grace to comfort herself. The frigid northerly wind dissipated as the sun crested over the horizon, bathing the whole of Abnorun in a warm embrace. Nila rested a hand comfortingly on Grace's shoulder.

"I suppose that makes two of us, then."

Grace turned with a start, her gaze inquisitive.

"Two of what?"

"We're both the last of our families. My father and mother have both passed on, and my sister died in the final battle the mercenaries ever fought."

"Marisa? No…"

Nila pulled the clearly distraught Grace into a warm, comforting side hug.

"We're in this together, Grace. You and me."

The pair sat in heavy silence, neither willing to break the fragile barrier set between them. The sun rising brought the whole of Abnorun to life, as citizens hurried down the crowded streets. Not a soul paid any mind to the silent pair sitting side by side in the shadowed alleyway, watching the world go by.

* * *

Valkus bathed in the unfamiliar feeling of the early morning sun as she pulled herself from sleep and rubbed her eyes. She was not used to waking up early in the morning, usually as a result of her late night binge drinking, but found the change of pace to be quite welcome. Nevertheless, the rising sun shone through the clouds to create picturesque bursting colors of dawn, and bathed the alleyway in a bright red light. It seemed as if the whole of Abnorun was immersed in the blaze of a warm, comforting bonfire.

But her reverie was soon broken as she heard hurried shuffling emanating from further down the alleyway. A loud crash of glass breaking was enough to pull Valkus from her state of half-sleep and into the realm of reality. As she smoothed her long, black hair, Valkus managed to slowly work herself into a standing position.

Valkus glanced around the corner of the high-arched entrance of the abandoned building she had slept in front of, only to find herself face to face with Chast as she rooted through the massive piles of empty boxes and crates littered around the alleyway.

"Have you seen my armor anywhere around here, dear?" Chast asked without preamble, "Or my staff? My lance?"

Valkus shook her head before tilting her head quizzically and narrowing her gaze.

"Didn't you give your things to Christopher to hold onto for the night?"

The Falcon Knight froze in the middle of digging through another crate, her eyes widening in shock.

"Christopher was _doing_ that? I had no idea, I—"

"Chast, calm down," Valkus said, holding her hands out in front of her, "Maybe Christopher just took them and put them with everything else. We'll go ask him together, okay?"

Valkus' words did little to abate Chast's anxiety, but she eventually gave an uncertain nod. She followed Valkus through the glowing red Abnorun alleyway, the light enveloping the two in a warm embrace. After rounding a corner, Valkus found Christopher clearing the remains of the previous night's fire from the fire pit. As the two women approached, Christopher turned and offered a wave.

"Greetings. Slept well, I take it?"

Christopher's salutation fell on deaf ears, as the still-anxious Chast began to stammer, "D-did you happen to stow my armor and weapons in here because I can't seem to find it anywhere and I really need them for combat—"

"Get ahold of yourself, friend," Christopher interrupted, making an effort to keep his emotions neutral, "I'm sure I have your things in my cache. Come with me."

The dark mage retreated through the door behind him with the ladies in tow. The morning light funneled into the repurposed building, illuminating the varied metal weapons and armor within. Chris had laid out the entirety of the party's items on various tables inside the building, following a loose organizational pattern of separation by person. Hunter's twin steel blades rested in the sheaths atop a table next to Marius' snakebound katana and dusty spellbook. Valkus' spear and ebony armor were piled in the opposite corner alongside Marius' dark armor, both blending into the dimly lit surroundings. Notably absent from the ensemble were Ashen, Nila's spellbook, and Matt's massive steel axe.

Christopher rooted through the cobwebs, his searching hands only retrieving dust. With a heavy sigh, the masked man turned back to Chast.

"What color did it happen to be again?" Christopher requested, as he slowly scratched the back of his head, "It doesn't happen to be among the collection of items."

"Dark violet, with darker shoulder pieces," Chast responded. The Falcon Knight was noticeably sweating despite the cool air of the shadow-enveloped room, and she was undoubtedly on the cusp of hyperventilation. Her striking red eyes were dilated from the darkness, epitomizing fear and uncertainty.

Christopher appeared momentarily baffled before returning to an expression of neutrality. He seemed anxious, however, as he absentmindedly scratched his cheek while pursing his lips. He seemed to be lost in thought, as if he was mentally retracing footsteps.

After a moment, the mage gave up whatever search through his mind he was conducting. With a pained expression, he asked, "Did you happen to give them to me last night? I certainly would have them stored _somewhere_ in here…"

Shaking her head, Chast replied, "No, I left them against a wall where I was sleeping…"

As soon as the words left the Falcon Knight's mouth, a mixture of shock and fear materialized on the lower half of his face. If his eyes were visible from under his mask, they surely would have widened. For a moment, he was completely lost for words, making severals sounds that could only be described as grunts or failed words. With a significant amount of effort the dark maged managed to spit out, "W-what? That… that's… Oh dear…"

Chast stoned joined in Christopher's state of panic, leaving Valkus completely baffled as she tried to calm the two down. Christopher, however, soon found his voice again, and explained, "…I think I may know what has become of your armor, friend."

Christopher paused momentarily before moving towards the lone window window, pulling the dust-caked blinds ajar to gaze into the sunrise over the spire of the Abnorun palace. He seemed to be lost in thought once again, and judging by his hesitation to speak, Valkus assumed that he was drudging up less than pleasant memories.

Without turning from his state of vigil, he said, "There is a certain scourge that plagues Abnorun. Few outside his circle of companions have seen him, but those who have know him as Ulysses. He is a nimble and silent thief, plaguing the streets at nightfall. He is quick, he is deadly…" He turned back towards the two women with pursed lips. "And he_always_ gets what he wants. If I were to guess, your armor is most likely either in his possession or in the hands of a fence."

"Stolen?!" Chast exclaimed, equally out of shock and anger, "You don't understand. That armor _was_ me! When I find him, I'll—"

"As much as I like to be the optimist," Christopher interrupted, "Very few can claim to have seen him. The only fact I can say for sure is that he has amassed an excessive amount of wealth from stolen property, and is hidden somewhere in the city. Unfortunately, I would search for a new set of armor if I was in your position."

"I… I can't do that," Chast repeated, her voice faltering, "That set of armor has too much sentimental value. There must be something I could do to track this… _Ulysses_ down!" Chast spat the name 'Ulysses' off of her tongue much like one would a crushed insect: with the most absolute disgust and repulsion.

Christopher remained silent, instead slowly walking over to the flustered Falcon Knight. He laid a comforting hand on her shoulder, and the black circles replacing his eyes on his ivory mask somehow became quite expressive with empathy.

"Chastity," he reassured, momentarily tightening his grasp on the Falcon Knight's purple-draped shoulder, "As I have informed your friend Matthew last night, I was once rather well off. I was in possession of my parents' inheritance, and I even owned a small house on the edge of town. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep me satisfied."

The dark mage released his grip, turning from Chast and towards Valkus as he interlaced his fingers behind his back. The sparse light shining in through the singular window reflected off of the innumerable dust particles floating through the room, enveloping Christopher in a fiery sea of dancing stars.

"I have dealt with Ulysses in the past. And like you, Chastity, I wanted revenge," he shot a quick glance towards the Falcon Knight, whose eyes were now slowly leaking tears. "So much so that I became blinded. I had very little to my name, and I thought it unfair that he would so ruthlessly fleece my paltry coinage."

Christopher let out a long drawn sigh, as he chose his next few words carefully.

"I pursued Ulysses. And I soon discovered that he has connections, far too many that any sane man would keep close. You may try to recover your armor, but you will only be met with the strongest of resistances. And by the time you do eventually work his location out of one of his acquaintances, he would have already flipped the set and made himself scarce."

Chast began to protest once again, but Christopher raised his hand firmly for silence. He turned back to Chast, his painted ebony circles radiating concern and pity.

"Please, Chastity. For your own safety. And the safety of those around you."

– – –

"Of all the terrible luck…"

Chast kicked at a stray pebble as she ran her violet sleeve across her eyes. The rock rattled against the brick street as it bounced, coming to rest against a worn stone wall. She and Valkus threaded through a northern side street of Abnorun, enveloped in a pained air. In spite of her close bond with Chast, Valkus found herself lost as to what to do to comfort the devastated Falcon Knight.

Valkus had dressed herself in her gold-trimmed black armor, which produced an audible clang with each step she took. Equipping herself was probably a poor idea considering the circumstances, but Valkus felt less whole without metal plating coating the whole of her body. She held her black-tipped spear like a walking cane, its leatherbound, wooden hilt tapping methodically against the ground.

Chast, however, was wearing only her simple violet tunic and dark pants that she usually wore underneath her similarly-colored armor. Without her trademark radiant violet armor set, Chast was a completely different person: lost, frail, and weak.

"I'm sure we'll find something better for you around here," Valkus comforted, giving Chast as realistic of a warm smile as she could muster, "After all, Abnorun is one of the largest towns in Plegia. They've got to have something in stock."

Valkus' words seemed to fall on deaf ears, as Chast's melancholy expression still remained on her face like a terrible scar.

"…That armor was custom made for me the day Owar and I joined the Justice Brigade. You remember, don't you?"

"How could I forget?"

Valkus briefly reminisced on how Matt insisted on having a fine set of armor crafted for a younger version of Chast. Out of the steel forges of southwest Regna Ferox came the trademark violet-tinted hauberk Chast held so dear, alongside a hardy steel spear. Valkus found it incredibly hard to believe that Chast's lifeblood was now nothing more than a distant, faded memory.

Before she could reflect any further upon her past, Valkus felt a hand grasp the giant black-steel shoulder of her massive armor. Now firmly attached to the material plane of reality, Valkus noticed that Chast had stopped in her tracks, and was staring at a large, sea green-caped man wearing a gilded set of armor. The paragon of a knight was standing over a tiny book stall, its counter barely holding the weight of the tomes scattered across its surface. The man closely studying the cover of two tomes, each sporting with green covers embossed with a detailed Brand of the Exalt.

"Isn't that…" Chast muttered beneath her breath, trailing off mid sentence. Valkus looked the hulking man up and down once quickly, unable to place him in her mind. By Chast's knowing expression, however, Valkus assumed that the Falcon Knight was convinced that she knew him from somewhere.

Apparently unsatisfied with the two tomes, the gilded man placed both back on the table, and retreated towards a side alleyway tunneling into the wall to the book stall's immediate left. Seeing the man leave, Chast broke out into a run towards the gaping mouth of the shadowed side street.

Valkus chased after the Falcon Knight as quickly as she could with her hulking armor lugging her down. Much to Valkus' confusion, however, Chast immediately stopped at the entrance to the alleyway. Not a moment after Valkus caught up with Chast, the Falcon Knight turned to her with a perplexed expression.

"…He's gone."

Much to the dark-armored general's bewilderment, the gilded, teal-caped knight had inexplicably vanished. Even in the darkest of alleyways, a man in a suit of gold would be quite easy to spot, especially since this alleyway ended at a dead stop mere meters into it.

It took significant effort, but Valkus was able to pull the puzzled Chast away from the ominous mouth of the alleyway that had claimed the gilded knight. Several paces down the street, Valkus keenly spotted a signpost labeled with a hammer and anvil hanging over the sparsely populated street, the universal symbol of a smithy.

"Here we are," Valkus stated before opening the wrought-iron door, "After you."

As Chast led Valkus through through the door of the unassuming armory, a bearded, musclebound young man clapped his hands together once, shattering the tranquility of the workplace. The sound reverberated through the otherwise quiet showroom floor silencing the rhythmic sound of hammer on steel.

"Look alive! We've got customers, people! Move it!" The musclebound man smoothed his thin black hair while he donned a similarly black apron and a white headband. With his work attire complete, he stepped behind the low, wooden counter against the wall nearest the entry. A cheesy grin appeared on his face as he addressed the two women.

"Ladies! Welcome to Dominic's Armory, finest armor and weapons in Abnorun! I'm Dominic, but my boys call me Dom. How can I help you?"

Dom spoke with an accent that Valkus couldn't place. It certainly wasn't Plegian, yet it lacked the typical heaviness of Regna Ferox. It was also a far cry from the lilt of the Valmese and Ylissean. Based on his clean and fair skin tone, he obviously wasn't a local. Valkus' train of thought was interrupted, as the melancholy Chast was already responding to the musclebound giant.

"Hello. I need a new set of armor, and weapons. Can you help me?"

The blacksmith either chose to ignore the obvious melancholy of Chast's voice, or was blissfully unaware of its presence as he responded with a cheerful, "Sure thing! What kind of fightin' style we talkin' 'bout here?"

Dom was already digging through a box of steel parts, tossing dangerously wicked cutting knives, blunt hammers, and pointed nails behind him casually, which all fell to the stone floor with varied pitches of metallic clangs.

"Falcon Knight, sir."

"Ah, Falcon Knight… Falcon Knight… Beautiful armor and weapons. Love 'em." Dom threw the last of his metal tools and scraps behind him, which formed a comically large pile compared to their small metallic storage box. At the bottom of the container, the odd blacksmith retrieved a small piece of paper and laid it out on the counter, smoothing away an innumerable amount of creases. Unintelligible scribbles crossed its surface, but judging from Dom's intense focus on the document, he was able to decipher the unintelligible scrawl.

"Unfortunately, I ain't no artificer, so you'll need to go somewhere else for that staff. But I think I've got just the thing for you in the weapons and armor department."

Dom ducked below the counter before emerging with a long, flexible cloth ruler. He quickly ran the tan, marked cloth around Chast's body as he darted from position to position, gathering measurements.

"Waist size, medium. Hip size, medium. Torso, large. You're a tall girl. Bust size… nonexistent."

Valkus found herself momentarily floored that the blacksmith actually took the time to point out that specific facet of Chast's appearance. And judging by her enraged glower, the Falcon Knight wasn't taking too kindly to the situation either.

"I have had a terrible enough day already, and it is not even noon," Chast articulated slowly, "I have lost the armor and weapons I have known for the past two years of my life. So let's not embarrass me on top of it, okay?"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down, girl," Dom paused for a moment, a sheepish expression crossing his face. As quickly as it appeared, it melted away back into his trademark smile. "I don't think so good in my head, so I say things out loud sometimes. Sorry."

In the face of the awkward situation, Valkus forced herself to become incredibly intrigued with the stone tiles covering the floor. She counted fifteen of them, making sure to take time to separate them by color before giving the two another glance. Chast looked far from forgiving the blacksmith, but her expression of rage had abated slightly.

Dom seemed to find himself tongue tied. He turned to Valkus, all while silently praying for backup, but the armor clad general quickly reimmersed herself in tile counting. The blacksmith gave a heavy sigh before attempting reigniting the conversation.

"Erm… it's as I thought. I've got what you're lookin' for. A set of military-grade Ylissean Falcon Knight gear, imported directly from Ylisse before the shutdown, complete with a lance and everything. The bust—" his voice noticeably faltered for a moment as he began treading on thin ice, "—might be a size too big, but I think you're set otherwise."

"_Military_-grade?" Chast balked, as her expression of primal fury quickly shifted into that of bewilderment. "That simply can't be possible…"

"Ain't never told a lie in my life," the blacksmith said, moving back behind the counter, where he must have thought himself safe from a potential brawl, "Military-grade, good as gold. Lookin' to buy?"

"Depends if the price is right," Valkus interjected, tearing herself away from her tiles. She laid a heavy pouch of gold on the counter, which landed with an audible thump. "This is all we can spend."

Dom emptied the pouch on the wooden counter and sifted through the coinage.

"Damn, you've got some big coin here." He quickly counted the glittering gold coins, moving them from one side of the counter to the other as he recited the value aloud for each. He found himself momentarily lost as he stared a bullion in the face before moving it to the side along with the others.

"Worth 3793 in all," Dom concluded, brushing the coins off the table and back into Valkus' pouch. He paused yet again, counting with his fingers as he scratched the short-cropped black hair underneath his headband. After a moment, insight crossed his face, and he beamed, "Normally the armor and the accompanying weapon would run you 4500… But I can't say no to those pretty faces. We've got a deal."

He reached over the counter and shook Valkus' hand firmly before retreating through a set of doors to what was presumably the storage area with three of his workers in tow. Out of the corner of her eye, Valkus noticed Chast turn to her with an unreadable expression.

The two shared both words, but came to a mutual understanding with each other. Neither of them were terribly fond of the blacksmith. But at the same time, neither were keen to argue with the eccentric man. After all, he a set of armor that none would see the likes of outside of Ylisstol itself readily in stock. Military grade, to boot.

Before Valkus had a chance to open her mouth, Dom and his workers burst from the doors. In their hands was the most beautiful set of armor Valkus had ever laid her eyes on. And judging by Chast's expression, she was completely floored as well.

The armor heavily featured a white metal plating, which covered the majority of the shoulderpads, cuirass, tasset, and boots. They seemed to have a glow of their own, even in the absence of strong, natural sunlight. Regal gold trim outlined the white metal on slightly raised strips of metal, providing an elegant, yet clean look to the set. To complete the look, one of the assistants carried a royal blue scarf and an intricate, four-pronged gilded lance.

"Alright," Dom called, lifting the Falcon Knight headdress above his head for emphasis, "Let's get you suited up."

* * *

With the midmorning sun beating down on their backs, the dark-cloaked Chris led Marius and Hunter through the winding, dusty streets of Abnorun. The town's populace was active, as many Abnorun citizens meandered through the streets to unknown destinations. Others were selling their goods in stalls dotted around on the sides of the main street. Both makeshift and permanent setups shared the roadway.

The town had always struck a certain chord with Chris. Those who lived in Abnorun all carried themselves with a purpose and a sense of belonging. It always appeared to be more than just a place to live. It was a real, full-fledged community. A community that Chris was proud to be a member of, despite his lower status.

At the same time, however, the town seemed as if it was innocent. Despite its close proximity to the Ylissean border, the town had nary an invasion or attack from the ever-present Sons of Naga. He knew that visage would come undone sooner or later, but he knew he had the chance to prevent disaster if he could execute his plan perfectly.

Chris let his thoughts dance idly through his mind as he continued the conversation the three had started in a favorite eatery of his.

"That meal was excellent, Marius. Thank you," Chris said as he wiped the remnants of his breakfast from his lips. It had been some time since he had a real hot meal, and the nostalgic feeling made him miss his life before he turned the streets.

"No problemo, friend of mine!" Marius returned with a smile. Chris couldn't help but smile at the Dread Fighter's upbeat personality and tone of voice. For someone dressed so menacingly, he had turned out to be quite the kind character.

For the first time in quite long time, Chris' first impression about someone had been completely incorrect. He expected essentially what he expected from Hunter: the quiet yet selfless type. If the two hadn't had completely different hairstyles and hair colors, he would have assumed the two to be brothers.

Hunter, on the other hand, was as true to his appearance as most others were. Chris thought the swordmaster to be the quiet, withdrawn type, while carrying a heart of gold. Hunter was quite skilled at concealing his emotions, but Chris had a sneaking suspicion that Hunter was enjoying the moment to an equal extent as he and Marius were.

As the three approached the bustling center of commerce, Chris was quick to notice a large mass of people were congregating around a spot he knew very well through his time in Abnorun: the crier podium. The offshoot from the center of town was normally deserted on days with no royal missive. Today was one of those days.

Chris shoved his way to the front of the crowd, ignoring protests and roars of anger from the massive swarm of people in front of the podium. Standing atop the raised platform was a female crier, a complete stranger to Chris. Judging by the puzzled murmurs from the crowd, Chris assumed nary a soul was able to recognize the visitor either.

Instead of the memorable ash-colored male noble vestments that the usual crier was donned in, this woman wore a hooded, black royal dress that cascaded down like a waterfall of regal black cloth. Purple eyes of Grima adorned the sleeves while a queenly gold trim shone magnificently on the sleeve cuffs. Chris was quick to connect the attire with high-ranking Plegian court nobles. But what reason would a court noble have to visit Abnorun?

Before Chris could ponder any further as to why the mysterious, black-haired stranger was standing upon the podium, she rang the Mark of Grima-endorned ebony bell that she held in her thin, ashy-brown fingers. The instrument produced a harrowing clang, silencing the majority of the crowd instantly. It was truly a far cry from the gentle tinkling of the gilded bell the typical crier was known for ringing.

"Ayez, ayez, Abnorun citizens, and listen well," the stranger spoke, her dominating voice echoing through the crowd and stifling the few remaining citizens who were still muttering in low voices, "I carry a message from the Autumn Queen."

The stranger paused briefly before retrieving a scroll tucked away within her dress. She held the parchment forward as the scroll unrolled itself, and began to read aloud.

"Your noble Queen Meliora has arrived in Abnorun, and is now occupying the royal palace. Some of you may remember that the Queen has scheduled a public oration in three days' time. But due to an unforeseen complication, the Autumn Queen will be delivering her missive within the hour above the palace steps."

Chris' heart fell into his stomach. The stranger continued to read from the scroll, but her words were lost upon him.

"_Today?! And so soon…"_ Chris thought as he shoved his way through the crowd, "_Everything is falling apart!"_

The dark mage surfaced from the sea of people, and spotted Hunter and Marius listening patiently at the edge of the crowd. He approached the two frantically, unable to hold back his panic. The two noticed his expression and immediately donned faces of concern.

"Christopher?" Marius implored, his normally cheerful persona vanishing in an instant, "What's eating at you?"

"No time. We need to find the others immediately," Chris blurted, his eyes darting back and forth between the Dread Fighter and the swordmaster.

"Give us the situation," Hunter urged with a surprisingly emotionally expressive voice. Chris briefly wondered if he had ever heard Hunter's voice before that moment, but he quickly cast the thought aside.

"We need to track down the others as soon as we can. Find them and bring them to the royal palace steps on the west side of town. I'll explain everything there."

The two men nodded before dashing off in opposite directions. Hunter bolted down the street they had originally come from to the east, while Marius took to the north. Chris briefly pondered between the south and west before deciding to take the path towards the palace steps and the upper-class shops.

A noticeable chill beckoned through the air, one that Chris suspected only he could feel. He was keenly aware of what was coming, but how much time he had to avert the seemingly inevitable was a mystery.

* * *

A rough set of hands shaking his shoulders was enough to force Nila awake. As his eyes ripped open, he found himself face to face with none other than Hunter, whose typical neutral expression seemed to be tinged with concern. After a moment, Nila lurched back in surprise. Just how long had he been sleeping?

"Get up," Hunter barked firmly, "Christopher needs us."

Nila chose not to respond, instead analyzing his surroundings. He was still in the side street he and Grace wandered into earlier that morning, sitting atop the same wooden crate. However, the sun had climbed much higher into the sky from the horizon, beating down intensely. Judging from its position, Nila figured that it definitely was not afternoon yet, but the hour was fast approaching.

He turned to his left, noticing that Grace herself was still present and slowly rousing in response to the commotion. Nila felt a quick shove to his front, forcing him from the crate. His head struck against the cold stone wall behind him, and he sprawled out on the ground in pain.

"We don't have much time. You're either coming or you're not, and I'm happy to leave you here."

"No, no," Nila assured, still shaking stars out of his vision, "I'm coming, let me just—"

"Nila? What's going on…?"

A voice spoke softly from his left side, belonging to none other than Grace. She was awake, that much was true, but she was still squinting heavily from drowsiness. A moment passed where all was quiet. Hunter appeared momentarily baffled before returning to a stern expression, while Grace was still trying to interpret her surroundings. Eventually realization crossed her face, and her eyes shot open widely.

"Gah! We fell asleep, didn't we? Gods, this is embarrassing…"

"You did," Hunter stated plainly, his expression unchanging, "And you're lucky that your things weren't pinched like Chast's were this morning. Nila and I are leaving."

The swordsman grabbed Nila firmly by the shoulders, hoisting him up from the dusty ground and into a standing position. He clutched the dazed tactician by the collar of his white undershirt, and began to drag him away. Grace grabbed him by the wrist and pulled the swordsman toward her so they were face to face.

"I'm coming too," she vowed, placing her free hand on her steel blade's hilt.

"If you're a friend of Nila's, I have no good reason to trust you. And judging by your looks, you'd only get in the way."

"Why, you—"

"I _said_, get lost," Hunter spat, struggling against the myrmidon's surprisingly ironclad grip, "This is not up for debate."

Hunter's words only caused the persistent Grace to tighten her grip as she glared daggers into Hunter's eyes.

"I can tell there's a problem, and you need swords to solve it. You're not stopping me."

The dark-robed swordmaster sighed, releasing his grip on Nila and prying himself free from Grace's.

"Fine. Let's get moving."

* * *

By the time Chris arrived at the steps below the Abnorun Palace, an innumerably large crowd had already formed around its base. He was hardly prepared for the whole of Abnorun to arrive, let alone on short notice. However, try as he may, he could find none of his new companions milling about the scene.

Atop the high balcony overlooking the steps stood a lone figure, clothed in a dark violet dress plated with gilded armor. Chris could just barely make out a heavily stylized Mark of Grima emblazoned on the woman's gilded breastplate. At points, it was difficult to tell where the armor ended and the dress began, as the cloth stood firm in spite of the ever-increasing wind speed. Her off-white hair, braided behind her head as to provide the facade of a short crop, contrasted heavily against her undoubtedly Plegian ashy-brown skin tone.

And while she wore no crown, there was little doubt in Chris' mind that she was none other than Meliora, the Autumn Queen of Plegia.

Very few could claim to have met the Queen in person. She was typically fond of making herself scarce in her reign, both for protection of herself and her ever-persecuted people. For her to conduct such a large-scale public appearance was nigh unheard of.

She raised her arms to either side and her gauntleted hands to the sky, as if to embrace the whole of the Abnorun populace. In that moment, she was joined by a familiar black haired woman sporting a hooded, jet-black dress with gilded sleeve cuffs. Chris recognized the newcomer as the mysterious stranger who had replaced the crier on the podium earlier in the day, but what purpose would she serve at the Queen's side?

Upon lowering her arms back to her sides, Queen Meliora began, "Brothers, sisters, citizens… lend me your ears. Today, we stand together as a nation. We are but one of three on this continent, but it is with little doubt that Plegia is the most united of all."

As she spoke, the majority of the congregation of Abnorun citizens erupted in cheer. Despite her distance from the crowd of people far below her, the gentle winds seemed to carry her booming words through the air and over the steps.

The Queen continued her speech, but a commotion from behind him jarred Chris' attention away from her powerful words. Three figures were clambering up the steps, one dark robed, another sporting a Grima-embossed hooded coat, and the third wearing a blue cloak over a scarlet, belted tunic, tan shorts, and dark brown combat boots. The first two were undoubtedly Hunter and Nila, but the maroon-haired female accompanying the two was a stranger to him.

Nila was quick to spot the dark mage hovering behind the majority of the crowd, and beckoned his two companions to fall in next to him.

"Two return in the company of a stranger," Chris riddled, "Yet we are still missing four. No matter, we must simply begin without them. Now—"

"Stop," Hunter interrupted, pointing a stiff finger into the startled dark mage's face, "I want to know what exactly is going on here. You never explained anything, and now danger is supposedly right on our doorstep. So you're going to explain everything. Right. Now."

"Ah, yes, right," Chris said, wearing a sheepish expression. He pushed the swordmaster's extended finger away before turning his gaze back to the crowd gathered on the palace steps. "Do you see the people wearing the teal-hooded cloaks?"

Hunter, Nila, and the stranger gazed into the crowd, each returning with a nod. Scattered throughout the gathering of people were figures, all donned in a hooded, teal cloak that covered the entirety of their body. They did not move, and they did not respond to the Queen's words the way the rest of the Abnorun populace did. They seemed as if they were specters from another world, sent to reclaim something lost. Even though Chris had seen the figures floating throughout the down in days prior, they still invoked an ominous sense of dread within him.

"We have been infiltrated by none other than the Sons. And we have little time to act before they make their move."

The dark mage turned to Nila, handing him a carefully sealed gilded envelope, emblazoned with a Mark of Grima-embossed wax seal.

"This is your ticket in," Chris murmured, pressing the document into Nila's outstretched hands, "Your coat matches the style of high-ranking court officials, does it not?"

Nila nodded, yet wore expression of uncertainty as he responded, "It belonged to my mother, who once served the court in Meliora's early days, but—"

"No time for doubts, Nila," Chris interrupted, giving the tactician a firm yet gentle shove, "It is vital for you to make your way to the palace balcony to sure the Queen is safe. If my suspicions are correct, she may be in grave danger."

Nila glanced back and forth once with pursed lips, his face riddled with uncertainty. He seemed to be trying to think of something to refute Chris, and place someone else in charge of the task. Eventually, however, Nila gave a defeated sigh before working his way through the massive congregation of Abnorun citizens and towards the two lance-wielding guards at the top of the palace steps. With Nila in the process of fulfilling his mission, Chris turned to Hunter and the blue-cloaked stranger.

"You two will wait with me until the inevitable occurs. We're not going to be leaving this place without a fight."

Chris turned his gaze back to the crowd, his eyes falling upon each of the ghastly robed figures. So many had worked their way into the congregation that it was nigh impossible to count each individual.

"We are sorely outnumbered and outmatched by the Sons," he observed, "But we must work to reduce civilian casualties until Marius returns with the others."

The two sword-wielders nodded, their hands slowly creeping down to their bladed weapons in unison. Despite their stoicism, Chris was apt to notice that the two seemed to be tense in light of the situation, without even knowing the full extent of the storm to come.

Now that the few pieces he could play were in place, he turned his attention back to the ever-present Queen Meliora. In the heat of the situation at hand, however, Chris was quick to notice that he had missed the Queen's speech almost in its entirety.

"Plegia's despair will most certainly be solved with time," Queen Meliora affirmed, "But if we are to consider ourselves a free nation, we must fight. I am not blind to the threats posed to us from the outside. And rest assured, we are fully prepared to engage our most prominent of enemies."

The Autumn Queen turned from the crowd, her dark violet cape billowing out behind her. As she removed herself from the attention of the crowd, the winds seemed to lose their energy and die down, as if afflicted with great melancholy.

She drew in a deep breath, and returned her gaze to the crowd as the wind grew ever stronger.

"For Plegia! For victory!"

The crowd burst into applause, their clamors and shouts drowning out all other sources of sound. The green cloaks seemed to turn to each other with mutual understanding, their disembodied hoods giving quick nods to each other.

Like the falling of autumn leaves, the green cloaks were thrown into the air, riding the gentle current of wind down to the ground. From underneath the spectre-like cloaks were armed figures, each donned in various shades of white and gold. Their swords shone in the midafternoon light, but their luminesce was more akin to the shining of pointed beast canines.

Screams of panic rose from the crowd as the sword-wielding figures swung their swords wildly, slicing civilians indiscriminately. As waves of frightened civilians ran past Chris and his two companions, he unclipped his Mark of Grima-embossed spellbook from his belt. As his allies unsheathed their weapons, Chris allowed the flow of dark magic to run down his left, tome-holding arm to his outstretched right arm. Crackles of dark energy danced across his fingertips.

He would not allow Abnorun to fall.

* * *

Chast studied herself closely in the small, cracked mirror placed in a dark corner of Dominic's Armory. Despite the dim lighting, the Falcon Knight was positively glowing. The pristine white Ylissean armor set seemed to cling to her like a second skin, while providing a little more substance to her normally frail visage. Her vibrant red eyes heavily contrasted the royal blue scarf draped around her neck.

She felt as if she could take the whole of the world on, just like she had the day she received her violet set. Valkus appeared pleased as well, complete with a huge grin across her face. She grabbed Chast by the shoulders and shook her with delight.

"You look great!" she gushed, letting go of the disoriented Chast, "But the picture still isn't complete. We need to find you an artificer."

Chast nodded, before tightly gripping her new lance and following in step behind the heavily-armored general. She offered the eccentric Dom one final glance, and he beamed as he returned with a wave.

Before Valkus had a chance to push open the wrought-iron door and exit the building, the door nearly burst off its hinges as a black-dressed form tumbled through and landed face-first with an unceremonious thud. The entirety of the blacksmith seemed to halt completely, and Dom himself stared at the crumpled form with concern.

The white wolf mask attached to his right shoulder gave away his identity. It was none other than Marius.

The Dread Fighter picked himself up off the ground, dusting his black-plated armor off as if nothing had happened. He rubbed his head, but whether it was out of confusion or pain was a mystery to Chast. He shifted his gaze slowly across the dim interior of the blacksmith, halting immediately as his eyes landed upon Chast and Valkus.

"OhthankthegodsImanagedtofindyouhere," Marius began, panting heavily. Despite his breathlessness, his thoughts tumbled out of his mind akin to a pot of boiling-over water. "Youwouldn'tbelievehowharditwastofindablacksmithouthere—Oh, nice new look, Chast! Did you get a haircut?—butChristopherisintroubleandweneedtogettotheAbnorunPalacefastorelse—"

The sound of metal striking skin echoed out through the blacksmith interior as Valkus struck the panicked Marius across the face with the back of her metal-gauntleted hand. The Dread Fighter recoiled in pain, clinging to the ajar, yet slightly lopsided, door to balance himself.

"Get _ahold_ of yourself, Marius!" Valkus cried, pulling the disoriented Marius away from the door frame by the shoulders, "Now, slow down and tell us what's going on."

"I would if I knew," Marius grunted, still rubbing the raw wound soothingly as he pulled himself away from the metal door, "But Christopher isn't _exactly_ the best at explaining things! He's been giving all of us the runaround for the entire day. That's why we need to get to the palace, and quickly. He can tell us more there."

Valkus gave a quick nod and beckoned Chast to fall in behind the Dread Fighter. With some effort, Valkus managed to pry the damaged metal door open which had since eased shut. As the three made their way outside, Chast was quick to notice that the once lively streets had since tapered down into nothingness. Not a soul treaded upon the cracked brick pavement of the Abnorun streets. The three were utterly alone.

The three Brigadiers found themselves rooted to the spot, not entirely sure how to grasp the situation. Chast glanced around nervously, noticing a tangible increase in pressure. Her breaths were labored, and her hands shook dreadfully. Something was definitely amiss.

Just as Chast seemed to overcome her overwhelming feeling of dread, the hurried shuffling of feet tore the silence open like a brittle sheet of paper. From the alleyway to her left, three sea-green cloaked figures emerged, blocking off the road to the front. She glanced backwards, desperately clinging to hope that an alternative route of exit would be open. But her hopes were dashed as three identically-cloaked figures emerged from another dark corner, taking defensive stances as they blocked the road behind her.

All at once, the six threw their cloaks behind them, which tumbled to the ground uselessly. Underneath were unmistakably Ylissean uniforms, which bore so close a resemblance to Chast's new armor. There was no doubt about their identity.

The Sons of Naga had come.

Chast instinctively unsheathed her new lance and held it in front of her defensively, as Marius drew his snakebound sword and Valkus her black-tipped lance. Chast understood what was coming, but desperately wished for Owar's help. It had been far too long since she battled without the mare's assistance. But she knew that there would be no escape. No alternate path, no means of exit. Only her, her two friends, and the enemy.

* * *

**Roster**

**No.001 Nila**

A resident of Plegia and descendent of one of the famous time travelers of Ylissean past, Morgan. Although weakly, he carries the same blood of Grima used to revive the fell dragon generations ago. He was a tactician for the Plegian Mercenaries in the past, who eventually dissolved under his leadership.

The most likely fall asleep while reading.

Born on December 20th, age 24.

Class: Tactician (**Sword**|**Anima**, **Dark** from Shadowgift)

**No.002 Matthew**

The leader of a group of fighters known as the Justice Brigade, who prefers the name Matt. He brought the group together after he and Hunter fled a devastated city in Western Ferox, one of the first Western settlements destroyed by the marauding nation. His confident personality is what the Justice Brigade's foundation stands upon, yet he harbors doubts of his own sometimes.

The one who slouches the most.

Born on January 2nd, age 21.

Class: Wyvern Lord (**Axe**|Lance)

**No.003 Hunter**

A Feroxian duelist with a deadly mastery of swordplay. He has lived in not one, but two villages that have been razed by magic-wielding bandits or conquesting Easterners. The loss of his sister invoked a keen sense of justice within him and a fear of magic and fire.

The least fond of parlor tricks.

Born on January 25th, age 22.

Class: Swordmaster (**Sword**)

**No.004 Chastity**

An Ylissean Falcon Knight—who prefers to go by Chast—with pale white skin and red eyes. Her albinism runs in the family, being shared with her father. She had high hopes of joining the Ylissean cavalry, yet was advised to pursue a separate line of work by her father. She instead took up work as a mercenary, and eventually met Matt after he saved her life.

The one with the scariest glare.

Born on October 29th, age 17.

Class: Falcon Knight (**Lance**|**Staff**)

**No.005 Marius**

A peculiar fighter hailing from Stormguard. Initially striving to be a scholar, Marius studied magic diligently throughout his childhood. However, he shifted priorities when bands of rogue dark mages attacked the settlement. With his interesting combination of swords, Anima, and throwing axes, he joined the enthusiastic Justice Brigade to put his skills to the test.

The one with the worst sense of humor.

Born on April 1st, age 20.

Class: Dread Fighter (**Sword**|**Axe**|**Anima**)

**No.006 Valkus**

A Valmese quartermaster who tolerates nonsense of no kind. After a false claim of fraudulence, Valkus chartered a ship to the Ylissean continent. She joined the Justice Brigade after falling to them in a battle to mete out justice for herself and others. How this beauty's personality meshes with the jovial brigade is a mystery.

The most likely to enjoy taking inventory.

Born on March 25th, age 28.

Class: General (**Lance**|Axe)

**No.007 ?**

…

**No.008 Lester**

A seasoned veteran and guardian of Ylissean royalty. Lester began his training for knighthood at the young age of seven. He failed to protect the lord he was sworn to from a powerful East Feroxian warlord. He formed the Ylissean Vanguard in an attempt right the mistakes that he brought upon the halidom.

The longest bather.

Born on May 15th, age 20.

Class: Paladin (**Sword**|**Lance**)

**No.009 Desmond**

One of the rare taguel who bounced back from the brink of extinction. Desmond is one of the few taguel who have refused to their cultural roots of warren life. He trained under a man who fought against the Gray Claw, a taguel purist society that threatened his home. He refuses to use his beaststone.

The one with the biggest rock collection.

Born on August 8th, age 19.

Class: Taguel Fighter (**Axe**|Beaststone)

**No.010 Samuel**

An Ylissean priest of minor nobility. His rigorous education led him to priesthood, where he trained in the Holy Church of Naga to heal his allies. After being denied entry to the Ylissean military, he was recruited by Lester to heal for the Ylissean Vanguard.

The best at insulting others.

Born on July 14th, age 21.

Class: Scholar (**Staff**|**Anima**)

**No.011 Brooks**

A mage of Ylissean background that has traveled the world across. With his traveling mage caravan, he saw the shores of Valm, the peaks of both Feroxes, the sands of Plegia, and the rolling hills of Ylisse. Longing to be greater than an entertainer, he left his caravan to create his own adventures.

The one with dirt on absolutely everyone.

Born on March 10th, age 25.

Class: Mage (**Anima**)

**No.012 Esthara**

An Ylissean tactician in training. She wields the legendary weapon Mercurius, one of the three regalia of old, given to her as a gift by her professor. Studying under the legendary tactician and professor Kairos, she aims to one day match the intellectual might of the most famous tacticians in history.

The lightest sleeper.

Born on November 19, age 19.

Class: Strategist (**Sword**)

***New* No.013 Christopher**

A masked prodigy dark mage who shortens his name to Chris. His skill comes from necessity, having lived his most of his life around bandits and thieves. He trained under a Plegian outlaw sorcerer, partaking in both assassinations and thefts. After being conned into murdering his parents, he took up his father's mask and fled to Abnorun, a Plegian border town. He shares a proficiency in shadow with Nila.

The giddiest laugher.

Born on October 4th, age 16.

Class: Dark Mage (**Dark**|**Anima**, **Dark** enhanced from Shadowgift)

***New* No.014 Grace**

A nimble and powerful Ylissean myrmidon. Her father and older sister served as fighters for the Plegian Mercenaries years ago, a fateful mission taking her father's life and causing her sister to vanish. At the age of only fifteen, she picked up the pieces of her shattered life and became a wanderer with her mother. Finding herself a mercenary after her mother's recent death, she will invoke any means necessary to stay on her feet.

The most sentimental.

Born on September 19, age 19.

Class: Myrmidon (**Sword**)


	8. 5: Reach of the Divine Dragon, Part I

Chast stood back to back with her fellow brigadiers, each holding their weapons defensively towards the approaching Sons of Naga. The three were obviously outarmed, with only half the manpower that the Sons boasted. But Chast didn't care. In the pit of her stomach, she felt a burning, righteous sensation akin to her usual fiery resolve in battle.

Even against the roaring bonfire of her furor, a tiny drop of doubt worked against her. She was without Owar, her best friend and companion. The Falcon Knight could count on one hand how many times she had done battle without her trusty steed, and very few ever tipped in her favor.

Without her Falcon, a Falcon Knight was nothing more than a knight.

Chast raised her spear ever so slightly higher as she pressed her back forcefully into those of her companions'. Her forearms trembled, but her grip on her new regal lance did not waver. No matter how afraid she was, she had a duty to protect her friends and the innocent.

As the white-gold armored Sons sprung into action, so too did Chast. The three Brigadiers dashed forward, engaging in combat with two different Sons. The young Ylissean was unable to see the enemies Marius and Valkus were fighting, but soon found herself face-to-face with the two Sons to her immediate front: a white-robed mage and a heavily armored axeman.

The Falcon Knight immediately put pressure on the lesser-armored mage, using her speed to her advantage. Chast leapt through the air, dodging a well-aimed Thunder aimed directly for her head. She landed on the opposite side of the mage, too distant for the axe-wielding general to engage. She knew that she wouldn't be able to fight against an axe, as the constant threat of the heavy weapon splitting her thin, four-pronged lance in two was far too prevalent.

Her distance, however, put her at an extreme disadvantage against the mage. Changing spells with a quick turn of his spellbook page, the white-robed spellcaster lobbed a massive ball of fire through the air. Chast barely sidestepped the inferno, licks of flame only managing to singe the outer layer of her gold-trimmed armor. The threat of the mage was out of the way, but as she glanced upwards she noticed a more dangerous predicament. The dodge managed place herself right in front of the armored general, whose axe was lifted above his head in preparation.

Chast knew that she wouldn't be able to completely dodge his blow, dodging back as far as she could while bracing herself in preparation. The white-steel head of the axe tore through her ivory breastplate, the wicked edge sinking ever so slightly into her pale skin. The Ylissean gasped in shock and pain as she felt bone give way as she recoiled backwards into the granite wall of a building.

Sanguine blood began to pour from the deadly wound as she felt the strength drain from her left arm. The general's axe had torn through her left collarbone, dragging all the way to the center of her chest. Her stricken arm lay uselessly at her side, but her spear was light enough for her to manage with her remaining hand.

The armored general had given her little time to think, immediately following up with a second overhead strike with his massive cleaver. This time, however, Chast was prepared for his strike, and nimbly rolled away while the general's weapon tore through the soft stone wall.

The armored Son's weapon split a wide gash, holding fast into the wall. Despite the general's apparent strength, he struggled to remove his massive axe from the stone. Chast desperately wanted to take advantage of the Son's disabled state, but she knew her weapon would do so precious little against his massive husk of armor.

She instead turned her attention to the mage, who was preparing a third spell. Despite the grievous injuries she had suffered, the Falcon Knight charged towards the white-robed spellcaster, her regal lance at the ready. The Son showed no signs of intimidation, standing his ground as the Brigadier approached him. Verdant green lines of magic ran down the spellcaster's hand as he pulled a wind-class spell from his tome. Yellow spellcasting runes surrounded the mage as he let the deadly Elwind spell fly.

Chast twirled her gilded, four-pronged lance in her sole still-working hand, ripping apart the green, coalesced air particles. Such a spell would have been a death sentence if she was atop Owar, but her unexpectedly strategic grounded position allowed her to approach unharmed.

The magic-wielding Son braced himself for the inevitable, making no attempt to flee from the encroaching Falcon Knight. Chast twirled her spear once more, plunging the wicked prongs through the thin white cloth covering the spellcaster's heart. The fabric quickly became stained a vibrant scarlet as the powerful mage gave a last, weak breath.

As Chast slid the gilded spearhead from the lifeless mage's body, her legs gave way, nearly sending her crashing to the cold stone walkway. Still firmly clutching her spear, the Falcon Knight placed her hand to her gaping axe wound. As she drew her hand away, Chast nearly fainted when she discovered that her entire hand was coated in her bright-red blood. Glancing down, she also came to the realization that the blood wasn't isolated to the wound. It poured from the gash, staining her incandescently white armor a sickening scarlet.

In the time it took Chast to examine her wounds, however, the armored Son managed to free his axe from the building's wall, and was charging towards her at an alarmingly fast pace for a human bulwark. As blood seeped from her axe-wound, her vision split in two and her head lightened. The Falcon Knight knew that she wouldn't be able to fight for much longer before either bleeding out or being torn in two by the massively-armored Son of Naga.

The general struck with another overhand blow, which Chast dodged before the massive white axe tore into the ground. The Son was quicker to remove his wicked blade from the ground this time, and immediately swung lengthwise. Chast held her lance's hilt out to parry the blow, which surprisingly did not snap the regal weapon.

The Falcon Knight backed into another wall, her head light from blood loss. Her legs finally gave way, sending her to the dusty Abnorun street. The Son stood over her bloodied body, axe at the ready to take the Falcon Knight's life. He raised his vibrantly white axe, the edge stained with blood, above his head, ready to deal the finishing blow.

Before he could let the guillotine fall, however, the heavy metal door of the building swung open, revealing a black-aproned man with a massive hammer over his shoulder. He took a step forward from the doorway, letting his mighty blunt weapon fall upon the heavily armored Son. His intricate, white-plated cuirass caved in to accommodate the great hammer's path, shattering the massive man's right shoulder.

The bloodstained axe he was holding crashed to the ground hilt first, the blade falling into the ground harmlessly. A second hammer blow to the chest knocked the Son to the floor, and a third to the head crumpled his intimidating helmet and shattered his skull.

Barely giving himself any time to examine the body of the fallen Son of Naga, the aproned man knelt down besides the quickly fading Chast. He muttered something, but the message was lost upon the Falcon Knight as her hearing has rapidly deteriorated as blood poured from her clavicle.

She soon felt a cool, bitter liquid pouring down her throat, which phased through her flesh and into every vein of her body. It began to take effect immediately, spearheading rapid blood clotting, and revitalizing what blood was missing. Her vision cleared, and strength returned to her weakened legs and arm.

Chast pulled herself from her crumpled position against the building wall into a weakly standing position. The elixir was fast-acting, much too quick for her body to handle. The Falcon Knight looked up, straight into the face of the shopkeeper she and Valkus met moments ago.

"You alright there, princess?" the blacksmith—who Chast vaguely recalled was named Dominic—asked, worriedness tinging his voice as he stared at the opening in her armor. "Damn. And you just bought that armor, too."

"I'll live," Chast assured, giving Dominic a nod. "Thank you, Dominic."

"Just Dom's fine. And hey, at least the guy didn't slice open your—"

Chast gave the blacksmith a steely stare, stopping his words in their tracks. He returned with a sheepish expression before averting his gaze.

"You know what? I think I'm just going to stop right there."

"I'm glad we're on the same page. Now let's move, we have a battle to win."

* * *

An arrow impaled itself in a wooden door, only a footfall behind the dark azure-armored wyvern lord as he rushed down the central road of Abnorun. Without breaking his stride, Matt swung his massive steel axe lengthwise, caving in the head of a green-cloaked Son of Naga who was foolish enough to block his way.

The gates of the walled Plegian city came into view as two brilliantly-armored Sons stepped out from behind cover; one held an ordinary bronze lance while the other carried a simple iron sword. Whatever the Sons were planning to do, they failed to account for someone actually uncovering their plot. Besides those that were in close pursuit of him, all those who were standing in his path of escape were weak, poorly trained units. These two were no different; no matter how brilliant their armor, it was crafted solely out of weakly-connected chains, no match for Matt's steel axe.

The wyvern lord leapt through the air, straight towards the lance-wielding Son. He held his lance up in defense, the wooden base tearing in two as Matt let his axe fall. The barrier did little to slow the descent of the Feroxian wyvern lord's weapon, carving a gaping hole in the chest of the defenseless son.

The other Daughter raised her sword, her green eyes seething with hatred. Within moments, the dark-haired cultist was upon Matt, slicing furiously with her iron sword. The wyvern lord was immediately put on the defensive, dedicating every ounce of his strength to parrying with his disadvantageous weapon. The Daughter struck fiercely, unabating in her deadly blows. Matt desperately searched for an opportunity to retaliate, but the Daughter's blazing offensive proved to be quite the defensive tool.

One blow is all he would need to finish the cultist. After several more blows, Matt decided to risk everything on a desperate final gambit. As soon as the Daughter landed a blow on the broad edge of his axe, the wyvern lord shoved forward with his shoulder, disrupting the cultist's endless pummeling. The Feroxian's axe connected with the Daughter's weak chain armor from a rising crescent slice, sending her flying backwards. In the same instance, the cultist's iron sword connected with Matt's left arm, chipping his armor and connecting with his dark skin.

Matt bellowed a painful howl as the Daughter's life ebbed away before him. In a final act of defiance and anger, the wyvern lord stomped on the corpse's face, shattering her delicate nose. Giving the body a final glance, Matt turned and dashed towards the gates of Abnorun.

As if fate was finally giving the weary wyvern lord a break, no further cultists blocked his path out of the city. The gate, however, was barred shut with a heavy wooden beam. Bringing his weapon back to its roots, he hacked away at the timber, cleaving it in two. He kicked the gate open, which yielded with a heavy screech.

On the other side, Matt quickly found the friend he was looking for. Bob had broken free from the stables, which were a shattered mess behind his massive body. In the wyvern's massive jaw was the defiled corpse of a chestnut mare, with most of her flesh torn off.

"Dammit Bob, put that horse down!" Matt chastised, approaching the wyvern quickly. The massive beast turned to meet his master, dropping the corpse. The wyvern lord laid a hand on his mount's muzzle, and whispered, "The old man didn't feed you beefsteak this morning, did he?"

The wyvern stared back with deep, expressive black eyes. In all of Matt's years of experience, that expression usually meant that Bob was either apologetic or hungry. In this case, it must have been a combination of both.

"Gods, what the hell did I pay that man for?" The rider gave his mount an affectionate pat before scanning his gaze across the desecrated stables.

"Did you happen to see Owar hanging around here?" the azure-armored rider inquired, at which the wyvern responded with a gesture that could only be described as a shrug. With more fervor, Matt continued, "Chast is probably in danger. She needs her Falcon."

Bob's eyes narrowed before heavily snorting, bathing his rider in superheated air. The massive beast turned, grabbing a wooden beam in his maw and tossing it to the side. He glanced back at Matt expectantly before stepping to the side and slumping to the ground.

Immediately, frantic whinneys emanated from the collapsed building. Matt stepped inside, his attention quickly being drawn to the light-armored pegasus tied down by the muzzle to a post in the right corner of the room.

"Let me help you with that, girl," the wyvern rider soothingly spoke as he undid the knot around Owar's muzzle. The pegasus' panicked cries ceased, and the majestic animal reared up on her hind legs before charging out of the stable.

"Why thank you, Matt," the wyvern rider mocked, "Why of course, Owar. Anything for a friend. Ugh, ungrateful animal."

The dark-skinned rider followed the pegasus out of the collapsing stable door, albeit more slowly. Bob was waiting for his master exactly where he was before, staring with an analytical gaze.

"Don't you start with me," Matt warned, holding his index finger up threateningly. He waited for an answer—a reaction, even—at which the wyvern offered none.

"Alright, you. Let's go."

– – –

Matt soared above the Abnorun rooftops atop his lifelong companion, dodging the licks of flame consuming the town. He was in close pursuit of Owar, who was leading the way some several meters ahead. The rider had a feeling that Owar's connection with her knight was leading him straight to Chast. Whether it was magical or a simply deep-rooted knowing, he couldn't say for sure.

As he flew, Matt noticed that the otherwise barren streets were absolutely crawling with Sons. A sea of green and white blotted out large sections of the pale yellow or orange paving, as if multicolored ink had been dropped over an otherwise pristine piece of artwork.

Several were carrying torches, tossing them indiscriminately in shattered windows. Flames spread over swathes of the town, and were hardly isolated to the entrance that he and Owar flew over moments ago. Above everything, however, stood the Abnorun Palace atop its hill, which was surprisingly untouched from the chaos.

The coherent picture of white, green, and orange was disrupted as the fliers soared over the town center. One man, plated in basic gray amor, stood against the green tide. Several corpses of teal and ivory lay off to one side, yet the sea raged against him with a fury paralleled by the elements themselves. The fighter was holding his own with his set of twin axes, but his strength was clearly waning.

Matt yanked on his wyvern's reins, stopping the beast in midair. Unaware of her partner's halting, Owar continued on her path into the ashy plumes of smoke rising ever higher into the darkening sky. Matt followed the pegasus with his eyes briefly, tracing a northward path in his mind. With a vague idea of where to locate his Falcon Knight companion, he guided his mount down into the whirlpool of chaos.

The pair landed with a deafening boom in the center of the square, knocking all combatants off balance for a brief moment. Matt drew his steel axe, holding the colossal weapon in one hand. The twin-axe fighter gave the new entrant a furtive glance before turning his attention back to the Sons in front of him, probably assuming him a friend based on his attire.

The enormous wyvern required no commands from his master as to where to go or what to do. The pair had been fighting for long enough to at the very least understand each other in combat. Bob hovered ever so slightly above the sandstone pavement, which took an incredible mixture of red and orange color from the pillars of fire rising above the town.

The pair flew next to the modestly-armored fighter, Matt swinging his axe into the unabating waves of Sons. The two glanced at each other a moment, sharing mutual understanding, despite exchanging nary a word. The fighter sheathed his axes, grabbing Matt's outstretched arm. Despite his muscular body, Matt was able to hoist the man into Bob's saddle before quickly ascending over the madness.

A hail of arrows followed the men and the wyvern as they made their escape, none hitting their mark. The newcomer sliced the arrows that intruded the closest upon their airspace, ensuring that the wyvern's wings wouldn't be torn by the wicked projectiles.

A calm came after the storm, and the simple-armored fighter exhaled a weary sigh before slumping into the leather wyvern saddle.

"Rough out there, isn't it?" Matt asked apprehensively, placing his axe back on its place on his back and taking up his wyvern's reins.

"You're telling me," the newcomer responded between pained gasps for air, "Thanks for the save."

The fighter's voice was throaty and deep, perfectly matching his scarred, musclebound physique. His brown hair, ruffled from combat and singed at the edges, was quite short, and looked as if it would fall straight if not for the recent stress. He sported a similarly colored and burned thin beard, most likely from lack of access to a razor than out of necessity. And, to complete the look, he wore a pair of juxtaposingly thin wide-rimmed glasses.

A heavy silence hung between the two, most likely because Matt had appeared from seemingly nowhere to spirit the fighter into the sky.

"Got a name?" the wyvern rider requested in a casual tone.

Before the man had a chance to respond, a deafening explosion rattled the very sky. The bell tower adjacent to the palace had burst into flames, massive licks of raging flames carrying high into the sky. Despite the roaring inferno, however, the bell carried on ringing methodically in its doomed chamber. Back and forth it swung, and the fighter's eyes followed it as it persevered through the flames.

"Bell," he murmured, "Call me Bell."

* * *

Grace pulled her sword from the broken heart of one green-cloaked cultist, barely having enough time to parry a heavy axe strike from above and behind her head. A swift kick to the knee was enough to knock the axeman to the hard sandstone floor, and a stab to the neck was enough to take his life.

Capitalizing on a moment of downtime, the blue-cloaked myrmidon glanced around the fray, spotting Hunter darting between cultists with swift strikes and Chris slinging dark magic only a few steps away from her position. After mere moments, however, the two disappeared into the churning sea of battle.

Most of the civilians had either fled or met a terrible end at the end of a blade, but the few who remained had drawn simple bronze weaponry and joined the fray. The green-cloaked cultists had reached a staggering number, with at least twenty seemingly appearing out of nowhere. But between the aggressive civilians and the three of them, their odds of survival looked decently optimistic.

Spotting an encroaching swordsman from the corner of her eye snapped Grace out of her reverie. She quickly checked behind her, which proved to be relatively safe, before facing her opponent head on. The green-cloaked swordsman struck first with a dashing lunge, which Grace nimbly sidestepped. She thrust downward with her steel blade, which grazed the Son's shoulder before he parried the blade away.

The two broke off from each other, finding themselves caught in a brief staring match. In the moment of armistice the two shared, Grace caught a glimpse of emotion from the otherwise neutral Son; his eyes widened briefly before returning to an antagonistic, yet calm expression. The expression appeared and disappeared so quickly that Grace was hardly sure that it actually happened.

Was the Son… scared?

The Ylissean myrmidon charged forward, her opponent mirroring her steps. The two shared blows, which rang out in concussive clangs, audible over even the deafening din of battle. Each attack Grace launched met only the metal of his blade, and every strike of the Son's was read easily and parried by Grace. The two appeared to be evenly matched, but Grace was keenly aware of the Son's each and every misstep.

Eventually, an opportunity presented itself. The Son attempted to mix up his offensive onslaught with a thrust, but hesitated for a moment. This projection gave Grace the chance to bash the Son's wrist with her sword hilt, causing him to drop his blade. The blade skidded across the sandstone landing the two battled on, well out of reach. The Son's hand flew to his belt, where a knife laid in wait, but he was too slow. Grace slashed once vertically, splitting the clasp of his sea-green robe in two, before running him through the center of his chest with her sword.

The Son gasped once in surprise before falling limp on Grace's steel blade. She put her boot to the Son's stomach, kicking the corpse off of her blood-soaked sword. As the defeated Son fell, his cloak slid off of his body, fluttering away on a strong gust of wind.

The man under the cloak was a far cry from the person Grace expected to see. Before her eyes was a boy who couldn't be older than sixteen, dressed in plain peasant clothing. His blue and white checkerboard shirt was heavily stained in blood, torn in several places where the myrmidon had slashed him. And his eyes—his large, brown eyes—were expressive even in death. As if they were calling out to her to have mercy on his life.

Something immediately felt very, very wrong. How many of the green-cloaked Sons were young people being forced to fight? Were they fighting by choice?

Grace turned her eyes to the palace. If she and the others were only fighting conscripts, then that would mean…

_"Oh gods, no!"_

* * *

Nila charged up the red-carpeted entrance of the Aborun Palace, each footfall cutting through the eerie silence permeating the building.

"It's already too late," Other Nila taunted, laughing maniacally. His voice projected behind Nila, the echoing sound abating little as the tactician dashed through the empty halls.

"The Queen is dead, and it's all your fault! You were too late!"

"You were too late," other voices taunted, echoing Other Nila, "Too late. Your fault. Too late."

The tactician faltered, rooted to the spot as the voices grew in number and in volume. He held his head in agony with both hands before crashing to the ground. Ashen and the Mark of Grima-embossed spellbook were wrought from the tactician's hands, the twisted sword clattering as the metal blade struck the polished ground. The popping of electrical energy within the steel weapon fizzled out as it came to rest at the feet of a statue in Queen Meliora's likeness.

Other Nila laughed maniacally as the other, mindless voices continued their endless chant. Without prelude, the voice abruptly halted his cackling, instantly fading from existence alongside the mindless voices. In place of the otherworldly voice's laughter was the soft chuckling of a green-cloaked figure, flaunting heavy ivory-colored armor and a sleek iron sword.

"Heheh…" she chuckled, removing her hood and letting her long, blond hair tumble to her shoulders. She glanced from the fallen tactician towards the foot of the statue of the Autumn Queen, where Ashen rested.

"That your blade?" she asked, as a nasty plot formed in her mind as she sheathed her iron blade. The woman picked up the gray, crooked blade, and cradled its hilt in her long, pale fingers. The purple-veined Levin Sword remained dormant in the woman's hand, however, functionally identical to an ordinary steel longsword.

"I think I'm going to enjoy killing you with it."

The Daughter of Naga twirled Ashen around in her fingers, stepping over the collapsed body of Nila. She pointed the wicked, curved blade downward as vile grin crossed her face. She clasped the blade's hilt in both hands, preparing to thrust Ashen into its master's exposed back.

Before she had a chance to thrust the blade downward, however, a faint laughter rose up from between the two. The Daughter's wickedly evil smile wavered for a moment, unsure of the source of the unexpected giggling. Before she had a chance to so much as twitch, a tornado of darkness enveloped her. The dark winds tore at her body, before being struck with a sole bolt of violet lightning. The daughter instantly dropped dead, dropping Ashen as her grip grew limp. The gray blade unceremoniously landed point-first at Nila's side, bouncing once before harmlessly clattering to the tiled floor. It emitted a single violet-colored spark, which ran down the length of the blade and into the ground, before returning to dormancy.

That spell. Even down to the dark, creepy laughter the spell was known for, Nila knew it well. It could be none other than Goetia.

The stunned tactician heard a second set of footsteps rushing towards him, this pair much more hurried than the last. He willed his body to turn to the encroaching noise, but found himself frozen to the spot. After a moment, a gentle set of hands came to rest upon his exposed back before turning him upright.

His gaze was met by a black-hooded figure, her ashy face and striking, ice-colored eyes riddled with concern. Nila found all but his eyes still refusing to obey his commands, but was saved the trouble of moving as the hooded woman hoisted him up and laid him up against the basin of one of the two indoor fountains the palace boasted.

"Are you alright?" the woman implored, taking several steps backward. Nila found himself still rooted to the spot, but noted that the woman's dress was curiously similar to his own attire. If his hierophant coat was refashioned into a woman's dress, it would look exactly the same as the garment his savior had donned. The exact same shade of black, the purple eyes of Grima running across the sleeves, the hood, and even the gold trimming mirrored the Plegian tactician's own coat. The resemblance was uncanny.

Panicked by his lack of response, the woman hastily removed her intricate staff from its holster on her back. The purple eyes of Grima running along the pole lit up at its masters command as she channeled a light healing spell at the disheveled Nila. Within moments, he felt his muscles become more limber, and eventually reclaimed control of his left set of fingers, which he repeatedly opened and closed. The warm sensation seemed to flow across the Plegian's body, and he eventually found the strength to grip the fountain basin and pull himself into a shaky standing position.

"T-thank you," Nila stuttered, concentrating regaining his balance, "I'm not sure what came—"

He was abruptly cut off as the woman embraced him strongly, the jet-black fishtail braid tossed over her shoulder pressing deep into his face.

"I know you," she whispered, tightening her grip on the bewildered tactician, "You're Désirée's baby. You wear her coat…"

"Y-you knew my mother?" Nila exclaimed, the strength of his voice mostly being absorbed by the thick fabric of the woman's dress.

"Knew her? You… you could say that," the stranger trailed off, her embrace weakening slightly. "Did she never tell you about Iris?"

Nila managed to shake his head, which the woman felt keenly through the fabric of her dress.

"Right…" Iris muttered defeatedly, "I suppose she wouldn't. Nor would Serena or Brennan." Her tears came to a halt as she broke the embrace, pushing the tactician away firmly.

"You do look a lot like her. The same eyes and hair… maybe Norman's shoulders…?"

"I… thank you," Nila sputtered, "But we don't… we don't have time. The Autumn Queen is—"

"I know her well, Nila," Iris reassured, "She can handle herself. Those who can match her swordplay are few and far between."

Iris gently unsheathed the thin, pointed rapier at her side. In her other hand she held her spellbook, which appeared to be identical in make to the tactician's.

"Still, we should make sure she's safe. Follow—"

"Wait!"

A voice rang out down the expansive hallway, belonging to a blue-clad figure who was frantically rushing through the emptied palace hallway. Locks of maroon hair peeked out of the person's hood of aqua, immediately revealing the newcomer to be Grace.

Grace came to a stop in front of Nila and Iris, pausing for a moment to catch her breath. Her cloak had suffered minor damage, as it was torn in several places. Underneath said tears were obvious cut marks, but none were deep enough to produce any serious bleeding.

Iris was quick to notice her wounds, and lifted her regal staff. A soothing green aura ran over Grace's skin, smoothing over all of her cuts and bruises. The myrmidon turned to thank Iris, but she held up her hand to halt the young woman. The black-dressed woman removed the emerald orb from the top of her staff, replacing it with an orb that shone with the color of the sun. She lifted her staff once again, but instead of the wounds binding this time, the fibers of her clothes came to life. The strands of azure fabric interlocked, wrapping around each other before fusing together.

"That was… Hammerne?" Grace panted, still hunched over from her sprint to the palace, "Th-thank you."

Iris nodded in recognition while she replaced the sun-orb with the mending green crystal, giving Grace a quick smile. The myrmidon exhaled heavily once before abruptly standing up, causing her pack to tumble to the floor and spill its contents. A heavily damaged Levin Sword, one that Nila immediately recognized as her mother's, skidded across the floor and landed at Iris' feet.

The Plegian woman gingerly picked up the fragile object as if it was made of glass, and cradled it gently in her fingers. She extended her arms, offering the weapon to Grace.

"Here, you dropped… wait…"

Iris pulled the weapon closer, intensely studying the hilt. She ran a finger along the damaged surface, her eyes widening in shock.

"This… this is…" Iris murmured, her fingers tightening on the blade. As quickly as the expression of shock came over her, she managed to mask her emotions as she offered an uninterested, "I see."

Iris practically shoved the blade back into Grace's waiting hands before turning away from the myrmidon. Nila could only read bits and pieces of her expression, but whatever emotions she was feeling were keenly hidden.

"And you are?" Iris asked, turning to the Ylissean once again. Despite how close she was to both Nila and Grace, her voice seemed distant. Almost pained, even.

"Grace… I'm Grace."

"Iris," she greeted, offering the myrmidon a hand, "I'm something of a friend. You can trust me."

"Pleased to meet you, Iris," Grace muttered through closed teeth, stashing her late mother's sword in her pack. She fastened the top and slung it over her back before turning to the momentarily neglected tactician. "Are you alright, Nila?"

The tactician nodded, gesturing towards the mutilated Daughter of Naga laying beside the fountain.

"I'm okay," he responded, "I had a run in with that Daughter over there, but Iris managed to appear right on time."

Grace's eyes noticeably widened at the mention of the limp body of Daughter, whose burned skin was beginning to peel and tear.

"Nila, the Sons here aren't what they seem," Grace offered as she clutched her hands together, "Their fighters outside aren't cultists. I think they're conscripted."

"Conscripted?" Nila exclaimed, "Are you sure?"

"I know so. I cut down a Son dressed in simple farm clothes. I have a feeling that the real cultists are going after the Queen."

"A diversion," Nila mused, bringing a hand to his chin, "If what you say is true, I wouldn't put it past them. We should go make sure that the Queen is holding up."

"But before that," Iris said with a singsonging voice, "Don't forget your weapons!"

Nila nodded, retrieving Ashen from where it rested next to the Daughter of Naga's corpse. He dipped the blade in the pool of fountain water to rinse off the blood that had congregated atop the weapon. The thick, sanguine liquid quickly flowed from the blade and into the churning waters of the fountain before fading away entirely.

Glancing around the chamber, Nila spotted his spellbook, which had landed face down next to a massive, sturdy marble column. He hastily plucked the book from its spot on the floor, slamming it shut clipping it to its designated spot on his belt. Nila gave the patiently waiting Iris and Grace a nod, falling in behind them as the three hurried up the gradual set of marbled stairs towards the palace balcony.

In the aftermath of the confrontation, a lone leaf of paper gently rocked through the air, coming to rest atop the marble lip of the fountain. A corner of the page dipped into the water basin, as the flow of the water threatened to yank the page from where it rested. Finally yielding, it slid into the fountain like a log through a shoot. The first ink diagrams to be pulled from the page were a series of intricate symbols, which glowed a faint violet from the power of the Milathistle paper. The final etching to flow off the paper and into the gently churning water was a singular word, written in a hasty scrawl. A name that the owner of the book the page was previously bound to never forgot to write beneath the inking of a spell. The word, nine letters in length, bound the spell and controlled its power.

Nosferatu.

– – –

The similarly-dressed pair, accompanied by a tinge of blue, bolted through the high vaulted, massive hallway, each footfall muted against the regal red carpet leading to the Queen's royal chamber. The still, heavy silence inside the palace contrasted heavily with the bustling of combat right outside the palace doorstep.

The eerie silence, however, didn't sit right with Nila. If this was supposed to be an attempt on the Queen's life, the Sons certainly weren't trying very hard.

"_They must be planning something, without a doubt," _Nila thought, barely managing to keep pace behind Iris. "_If what Grace said is true, then there's no question about it."_

"What makes you so sure you can stop it?" Other Nila taunted, his voice manifesting to both Nila's left and right, "Perhaps you're too late already…"

Iris halted as the three reached the end of the corridor, resting a hand on the heavy wooden door. Twisted gold handles were firmly set into the wood paneling, providing a sense of almost foreboding elegancy. Iris wrapped her fingers around the thin, gold metal, giving Nila and Grace a quick nod before hoisting it open.

Inside the chamber stood a lone figure over a pile of fallen bodies. Winds swirled around the chamber, pulling books from their shelves and throwing them indiscriminately around the large, luxurious room. Nila ducked as one crashed into the section of the door that his head occupied only seconds ago, only for the tome to bounce off of his head and onto the carpeted floor.

The violet, armored dress the woman at the center of the vortex wore was unmistakable. In combination with her once braided off-white hair, which had come undone in the cyclone, the woman standing before him was none other than the Autumn Queen, Meliora.

Recognition crossed the Queen's face as the black-dressed Iris stepped through the door, followed closely by Nila and Grace. Iris slammed the regal door shut, throwing the bar lock over the interior handles. The Queen sheathed her glowing orange sword, immediately halting the wild gale; the books and papers circling around her lost all momentum in an instant, dropping unceremoniously to the ground.

"Iris, you've returned," Meliora flatly stated, lightly kicking the limp arm of one of the several bodies scattered across the floor, her face contorting in disgust. "You know how I despise fighting."

"I know, I know," Iris chuckled, sheathing her rapier, "But you seem to have handled them quite well yourself."

"This was just a scouting party. It doesn't take a tactical genius to figure out that there will be more where these lot came from."

Without warning, the queen ripped her gaze from Iris before staring intently at Nila.

"Speaking of, we just so happen to have one in our presence." The queen held out an ashen-brown hand, giving Nila a firm nod. "I am the Autumn Queen, Meliora. You must be Nila. Your mother told me much about you before she passed. A shame, to be taken by illness."

Nila hesitantly grasped the Queen's hand, giving a weak shake and falling to one knee.

"Y-your highness—"

"Drop the formalities, Nila," the Queen interrupted, forcefully pulling Nila to his feet, "If your mother had bothered to tell you anything about her time in the court, you'd know that friends and family of the court are on a first name basis with me. Regardless, the situation we find ourselves in is hardly befitting of such behavior."

"R-right. My apologies."

She then turned her attention to Grace, who was busy tilting a crooked painting back into position.

"And you, my dear. You are Serena's, yes?"

Grace nodded, her eyes darting back and forth between Nila and Meliora as she rocked on her heels. Her arms remained behind her back, interlocked by her hands, which clutched each other at the wrist.

"Greetings. I knew both of your parents well."

Meliora either chose not to acknowledge Grace's noticeable flinch, or did not see it at all, as she cleared her throat and quickly resumed speaking.

"As it stands, we have very little time to ponder our position. No guards will be able to come to our rescue now. At this point, we must simply hope for the best."

A sharp bang on the wooden door cut through the room, only managing to startle Nila. The Queen's otherwise impassive face turned to one of muted anger as she rested her hand on her blade's hilt. After a moment of silence, the sharp head of a wicked black axe tore through the heavy door, dragging downwards and sending splinters to the floor beneath the barrier.

"I suppose our guests have finally arrived," Meliora mused, drawing her orange-tinged blade, "What's the strategy, Nila?"

"Well… we wait."

"Wait?" Grace questioned, her voice soft, yet stern, "Nila, are you sure that's the best option?"

"It's the only option," the tactician affirmed, causing all those present to stare him down. The tactician hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to best approach the situation before continuing, "Our first mistake was tarrying here. Fortunately, though, this room should be big enough to host some measure of combat. And if the people on the other side of the door are the real enemy, and not just conscripted peasants…"

Nila trailed off for a moment to gauge Grace's expression. She was worried, expectedly so. But beyond that remained a small measure of hope: trust in his decision.

"…then we're safer in here."

The keen black axe finally hit its mark, splitting the bar lock holding the heavy wooden door in place. A steel-toed boot shoved the now-useless barrier ajar, revealing four brilliantly armored Sons of Naga.

The first, and the holder of the axe, was a massive wall of a man that shone with a luminescent glow as the sun peeked through the windows. Three others stood behind him, two in sea-green robes and another white-armored, greatsword-wielding knight. Their eyes fixed on the woman in the armored dress, and they knew that they had found their objective.

"Meliora!" Nila shouted in a commanding voice that surprised even him, "Get to the balcony. Now!"

The Autumn Queen put up no argument, and unsheathed her sword. Gale winds picked up even in the enclosed space of the bedroom, blasting the four intruders backwards slightly. Meliora took to the door on the opposite side of the room, and disappeared outside.

Iris immediately jumped into action, brandishing her pointed steel rapier. She bowled into one of the green-robed Sons, who barely managed to raise his staff and parry the blow. The other robed figure reacted to Iris' sudden offense, and the three disappeared into the hallway in a hail of spells and steel.

In the very same moment, the two more heavily armored fighters charged into the room and immediately engaged the barely-prepared Nila and Grace. The axe-wielder quickly opened with a lengthwise slice that Nila managed to parry, sending both magical and physical sparks flying.

For such a large juggernaut, the Son was unexpectedly nimble. He shrugged off the parry as if his strike had actually connected, and he immediately followed up with an overhand vertical strike. Nila found himself on his toes, struggling to fend off this offensive threat. The Son left no openings for him to take advantage of.

Nila wasn't able to see how Grace was faring, but a small part of his mind hoped that she was faring better than he was. Blow after blow rained upon the tactician, but he always managed to put Ashen in between him and the black edge of the Son's axe, if just barely.

The white-armored Son was no fool, though. After another similar overhead strike that Nila managed to parry, the cultist shoved Nila backwards with his boot, sending Ashen soaring out of sight. The tactician fell hard upon his back, the wind being knocked from his lungs. The Son wasn't through, however, as he sent a blow straight towards Nila's exposed face. Rolling to the side, he managed to both avoid the blow and jump to his feet.

With Ashen gone, his main line of defense against the cultist was nonexistent. Nila pulled the spellbook from his belt, estimating that a Nosferatu or two would be sufficient to finish the job.

Except Nosferatu simply wasn't present in his tome. Where the page was normally placed was a completely blank canvas, alongside the jagged edges of a torn page.

The one moment that Nila hesitated was enough for the Son to have his chance. The black head of the axe tore through Nila's right shoulder, causing him to erupt in roars of pain. The agony was doubled as the Son tore the blade from fresh wound, preparing a finishing blow.

On reflex, Nila raised his left arm defensively towards his attacker. The back of his neck burst into searing pain, as arcs of violet lightning traveled down his extended arm. In the palm of his hand, lightning danced as it traveled to the tips of his fingers, before arcing together in a hideous violet cloud.

The Son of Naga's face contorted in fear, clearly as baffled and terrified of what was happening as Nila was. He didn't even have time to scream before darkness itself descended upon him.

* * *

Chris closed his spellbook, finally finished with his work. The sun had set on the threat the Sons of Naga had posed, at least in the courtyard. Dozens upon dozens of green-wrapped cultists lay dead over the sandstone pavement, which was stained a deep red from their blood.

The dark mage heard a sword sheath as the black-robed Hunter approached from behind. He was hardly devoid of scratches and bruises, if his tattered clothing was any indication, but he seemed otherwise unharmed.

"Thanks for the help," he started, holding a hand out to Chris, "You're pretty reliable for a mage."

"For a mage?" Chris replied with a grin, firmly grasping Hunter's outstretched hand.

"A story I don't want to discuss at the moment."

"Ah! Understandable."

The two shared a silent moment in the eerie courtyard amongst the corpses of both Plegians and Ylisseans alike. Surviving citizens milled about, tending to the fallen and searching for their companions. Chris and Hunter, however, both knew that more would arrive once word had spread of the cultist defeat.

"Let's take to the streets," the swordmaster said, returning awareness of the current state of affairs to both Chris and himself, "Marius and the others—"

Hunter paused, his attention being drawn to the balcony that Meliora gave her address upon. Previously empty, it now had a sole resident: Meliora herself.

"Up there," he pointed, Chris following his pointed finger to the ledge that the queen was standing upon. In her hand was a peculiar orange blade, and her stance divulged that Sons were probably on the other side of the door.

"The Queen…" the dark mage marveled. He had expected that Nila would be able to defuse the situation. Was he mistaken? Collecting himself, he continued, "Try to discover the whereabouts of Chastity, Marius, Matthew, anyone. If what I think is happening is indeed happening, we're going to need reinforcements."

The black-robed swordmaster nodded, and darted through the crowds of people and piles of bodies to the courtyard's exit. Chris watched him leave for a moment before he scanned the area, searching for the palace's entrance.

In the same moment, however, a peculiar sensation rose up around Chris' Mark of Grima. His breath faltered, and his heart skipped a beat. Fellblood were never privy to such a feeling, unless…

A shockwave, traveling through the very earth underneath the dark mage's feet, caused him to stumble before a deafening blast tore open his eardrums. He looked to the source of the sound, and gazed in horror as the palace's windows shattered, smoke billowing through the openings, and the very walls holding it together became riddled with thin, violet lines. He saw Meliora thrown back, her head connecting with the guardrail around the balcony's edge, surely stripping her of her consciousness.

Chris knew exactly what was happening. Nila, who he previously thought dead, was definitely alive. Whether or not the people with him lived was impossible to say.

* * *

Commotion in the Abnorun side street died down as Chast and her allies finished off the remaining cultists. The six that they fought were powerful, that much was for sure, but how many more were lurking in the shadows they could not say.

Chast watched as Valkus pulled her spear from the gut of a white-robed Daughter, hoisting it over her shoulder triumphantly.

"Feeling better?" the armored general asked with a tinge of concern, her eyes being drawn to the shattered portion of Chast's armor, "That looked like a pretty nasty strike."

Chast shook her head reassuringly.

"I'm feeling better. Dom's elixir has worked wonders."

"Not just the elixir!" Dom piped in, a beaming smile across his face, "Your lance, too."

The Falcon Knight gazed down at the regal weapon in her outstretched hands. Even in the bright afternoon light, the weapon had adopted a soft, pulsing glow. In the heat of combat, she hadn't noticed it, but even simply holding it sent a warm, coursing feeling through her body.

"It's blessed! I… I _did_ mention that before, didn't I?"

Chast opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by an ear-shattering explosion from somewhere to the far south. A small, almost unnoticeable shockwave followed immediately after.

"What was—"

The Falcon Knight gazed to the south, and was witness to plumes of smoke that were climbing higher than those from the Abnorun rooftops.

"Wait a minute," Marius observed, "That's where the palace is, isn't it?"

Chast nodded, having drawn the same conclusion that her Dread Fighter companion did.

"The Queen was in there, wasn't she? That would mean…"

"We've been wasting our time here. We need to get over there, and fast."

* * *

When Nila came to, chunks of plaster were raining down from the ceiling like a heavy storm of water droplets. _Whatever _just happened ended with Nila meters away from where he was standing, face down on the plush red carpet of the Queen's temporary quarters, and facing opposite of the heavy wooden door that guarded the entrance.

A sharp pain coursed through the back of the tactician's neck, running up the length of his left arm. The pained limb felt heavy and dull, while lacking responsiveness to his attempts to lift it. Oddly, though, it wasn't numb. He could feel the fabric of his coat, the sturdy ground underneath the carpet, and the searing pain where his arm lay. But despite his efforts, his arm barely managed so much as a twitch.

Using his right arm, which fortunately still had some measure of feeling, Nila pulled his motionless arm from where it lay at Nila's side to the front of his face. He massaged his forearm in an attempt to restore movement, which ultimately proved in vain. With the crippled arm in front of him, Nila observed that the once sickly-blue veins running up and down his arm had turned to a disturbing, softly glowing violet. Fledgling electrical sparks of a similar color jumped from finger to finger on his right hand, their shocks entirely painless. Based on the situation, though, Nila felt no bewilderment at such a concept.

Exhaling with a pained grunt, the Plegian managed to pull himself from the ground and into a weakly standing position, relying solely on his shaky legs and his remaining functional arm. Glancing around, Nila was quick to notice a black haze had descended upon the room, choking in both the mind and the body. Tiny particles of soot floated through the air, saturating the precious, breathable air with tainted powder. Nila held his left black sleeve over his face, erupting in heavy, dry coughs.

In the still, smogbound room, all was quiet. Not a noise, save for Nila's coughs and gasps for air, permeated the disturbingly calm air. Even Other Nila had become peaceful and reserved, despite his threats and insults of malice seemingly moments ago. Not a single beam of sunlight managed to penetrate the thick layer of black fog. Adding to the grim atmosphere was Nila himself, who lit the floating dust around him like a human candle. A violet candle, but a candle nonetheless.

Nila began to panic, his already weak breaths becoming even more labored. This was not the first time he had been witness to a calm this eerie. Immediately after the disaster that surrounded him and his mercenaries in the forests of Ylisse, the air carried the very same stillness. The motionlessness of the air embodied the same chilling feeling that becoming witness to his sister's corpse all those years ago had done.

"_Which must mean… No. Oh no."_

"All dead. All forgotten," Other Nila whispered, his voice barely audible even in the sinister silence surrounding Nila and his thoughts, "You did it. You're free."

"_They can't possibly be dead. They… can't."_

Nila trudged through the blackened room, carefully stepping over a pile of loose plaster that had fallen from the ceiling. He managed to wave enough of the soot away from his face to spot the place he had been standing before the blast. A white, circular ring of singed carpet marked the spot that _whatever_ that unholy mass of dark energy was had landed. The Plegian closed his eyes, his mind rewinding back to the skirmish with the Son of Naga from before.

He remembered the man's thin blade plunging deep into his shoulder, causing him to throw his spellbook across the room. And, sure enough, the hardy little tome managed to survive the blast, and was lying next to the ruined dresser it had fallen next to with only a thin layer of plaster powder to show from the catastrophe.

"Pick up the tome," Other Nila murmured, speaking in an unsettling monotone, "Others will come. Make short work of them."

Picking up the book and resting it in his lap, Nila managed to flip the pages to a simple Wind spell. This time, the page was actually present in the tome, and he was free to draw the spell from its page with his free hand. The tactician let off a weak stream of the spell, panning it across the room. The soot plaguing the air found itself caught in the gust, and billowed away in the current of wind. Sunlight poured in, from the shattered windows.

Nila gasped as he allowed his lungs to fill themselves with revitalizing pure air. With the dust cleared, sunlight filtered in through the expansive windows, beams of sunlight reflecting off what few specks remained.

With the choking smog gone, Nila was witness to the devastated room in all of its terrifying glory. The heavy door that once bought their group precious time simply did not exist anymore. Not even a splinter remained; in its place stood a gaping maw of darkness leading into the hallway immediately outside the chamber. A thin layer of dark soot, presumably the remains of the once proud and sturdy entrance coated the white walls and floor, staining them a sickly black. Even without the presence of fire, scorch marks lined the walls around the center of the impact.

And in the center of said impact was none other than the charred corpse of the Son of Naga he had dueled. His skin had transformed from a standard Ylissean pale to as dark as the night sky in an instant. His great armor, which once served as an impenetrable fortress, had mostly melted away, burning the corpse's ruined skin and creating a not-quite-liquid puddle next to its chest. His black-headed axe was nowhere to be seen. In his new state, the corpse felt small and insignificant compared to the paragon of Naga he once was in life.

Nila felt ill.

Despite the damage, no other corpses remained. Whether or not the others Sons and Daughters faced a similar fate as the door was uncertain. But that begged the question: what became of Grace, Iris, and Meliora?

A raspy coughing from the side of the now-destroyed canopy bed would prove to be the answer to his question. Rising from a pile of black dust and plaster was Grace, covered head to toe in a fine gray powder. The myrmidon shook the dust from her maroon hair, creating a puffy white cloud that floated for a moment before dispersing into the air.

Grace looked around with bewilderment for a moment, trying to process exactly what had happened. After feeling around for a moment, she grabbed the hilt of her steel blade and removed it from the wall it was embedded in. She rubbed the dust from her eyes, and quickly noticed the black-coated man standing across the room, staring at her.

Powder cascaded downwards like water rushing from a broken dam as Grace painstakingly pulled herself from the carpeted floor. She winced as she put weight onto her left leg, tipping Nila off that it probably had been damaged as a result of him. Regret and sorrow immediately washed over him.

"She's crippled," Other Nila whispered into the tactician's left ear, as if to dissuade him from his remorseful thoughts, "End it now."

Using her sword as a makeshift cane, Grace slowly made her way towards the waiting Nila. The Plegian could only imagine how he looked to her, with his veins growing violet, a traumatized, wide-eyed expression across his face, all while being covered in dusty plaster.

Grace, however, just looked at him. She didn't say anything, and her face remained quite unhostile. Her expressive blue eyes slowly followed him up and down, capturing every detail.

The two shared many a moment in silence, neither daring to say a word. Grace's eyes welled up with tears, Nila quickly noticing his mirrored hers. The myrmidon took an uncertain step forward, and wrapped her arms around him.

In between shaky breaths, Grace murmured, "I thought I lost you."

Her quiet voice was the first to pierce the heavy veil hanging over the scarred room. Nila could not find any words to respond. What could he even say to her?

Grace's arms soon loosened, and she ran a hand through Nila's rough brown hair. Ash and plaster dust rained down, obscuring his vision in the already moodily-lit room. The myrmidon spent a longer than average time working on a specific spot on the left side of his head. She rubbed it thoroughly, but whatever was stuck in there refused to yield. Grace apparently understood what had happened, her eyes widening in shock.

"Nila, I think you'd want to take a look at this."

Without warning, the red-haired myrmidon plucked a hair from his head, yielding a surprised yelp from its owner. She held the thin strand out expectantly, which Nila took apprehensively. In between the tips of his fingers, the tactician held a hair that couldn't conceivably have come from his head.

A strand of pure white met Nila's amber eyes. If he hadn't known any better, he would have thought it had come from a spool of string.

The Plegian could only manage several inarticulate babbles while Grace grabbed her sword cane and approached the far wall. From the mirror, which had shattered in the explosion, the Ylissean myrmidon claimed a sharp, triangular remnant.

Nila took the mirror piece from Grace with a trembling hand; his left arm still hung limply at his side. Holding it away from his face, Nila at first could barely recognized the person staring back at him. The purple veins still present on his arms ran up his neck and across his face, crisscrossing like an ethereal spider web. Even his amber eyes had cracks of amethyst at their corners.

Atop his head, however, was the most startling change; a lock of hair on the left side of his head was completely drained of color. In the moody room, it appeared almost ghostly.

A hand pressed against Nila's right shoulder, sending lines of searing pain throughout his body. His right hand flexed instinctively, sending the mirror to the floor where it shattered into even smaller pieces.

"You're bleeding," Grace stated simply, holding a roll of bandages in one hand, presumably taken from her pack, "Let me help you."

The myrmidon helped Nila from his coat and his white undershirt, which was stained crimson red from how profusely he had been bleeding. She gently wrapped the adhesive side around the wound, which had already started to clot.

Just as Nila began to put his coat back on while he gazed at the tear through the shoulder, the two heard commotion from outside the now-useless door frame. Grace immediately drew her steel blade, while Nila fumbled around his belt searching for Ashen, which had managed to disappear in the chaos.

The tactician ducked into the opposite side of the canvas bed that Grace landed in, while Grace pressed her back against the little-remaining wall adjacent to the door frame. To his surprise, though, Ashen was waiting for him aside the bed, underneath a small pile of ash. However, it was not dormant; lines of violet electricity ran up and down the blade, while it clattered softly on its own accord. It was almost as if the blade was agitated.

Nila placed a hand on its hilt, but the blade did not respond to his touch as it normally did. The dark magic it absorbed must have been more powerful than Nila could produce passively on his own. The destruction in the room was indicative of that.

Peeking above the surface of the bed, the Plegian tactician soon noticed that two other figures were accompanying Grace, speaking in low voices. He assumed that if Grace wasn't in any danger, neither was he, and he sheathed the still-trembling Ashen to his belt and approached the strangers.

As he approached, the three immediately ceased their conversation, staring at the violet-glowing Nila. The tall, black-dressed woman—Iris—wore an oddly-mixed expression of concern and fear, while Grace managed to maintain a neutral expression. Her eyes, however, gave away that she harbored doubts and concerns of her own.

The dark-cloaked, masked mage—that Nila quickly recognized as Chris—differed from the two women. His eyes were fixed to the newly-present white lock of hair on the side of Nila's head. One look at Chris revealed that several locks of his own hair were not too dissimilar from the one that the tactician now wore.

The dark mage took one confident step towards Nila, gazing at him as intently as he could from underneath his mask.

"Nila…" Chris trailed off, as if he was searching for the right words to use, "Do you know what _exactly_ you've done?"

Nila's mouth ran dry. He desperately tried to form some sentence to break his painstakingly long vigil of silence, but his search proved fruitless. The tactician instead opted to shake his head slowly, his eyes never straying from the black circles on Chris' mask.

"That was… an Expiration."

* * *

**Roster**

**No.001 Nila**

A resident of Plegia and descendent of one of the famous time travelers of Ylissean past, Morgan. Although weakly, he carries the same blood of Grima used to revive the fell dragon generations ago. He was a tactician for the Plegian Mercenaries in the past, who eventually dissolved under his leadership.

The most likely fall asleep while reading.

Born on December 20th, age 24.

Class: Tactician (**Sword**|**Anima**, **Dark** from Shadowgift)

**No.002 Matthew**

The leader of a group of fighters known as the Justice Brigade, who prefers the name Matt. He brought the group together after he and Hunter fled a devastated city in Western Ferox, one of the first Western settlements destroyed by the marauding nation. His confident personality is what the Justice Brigade's foundation stands upon, yet he harbors doubts of his own sometimes.

The one who slouches the most.

Born on January 2nd, age 21.

Class: Wyvern Lord (**Axe**|Lance)

**No.003 Hunter**

A Feroxian duelist with a deadly mastery of swordplay. He has lived in not one, but two villages that have been razed by magic-wielding bandits or conquesting Easterners. The loss of his sister invoked a keen sense of justice within him and a fear of magic and fire.

The least fond of parlor tricks.

Born on January 25th, age 22.

Class: Swordmaster (**Sword**)

**No.004 Chastity**

An Ylissean Falcon Knight—who prefers to go by Chast—with pale white skin and red eyes. Her albinism runs in the family, being shared with her father. She had high hopes of joining the Ylissean cavalry, yet was advised to pursue a separate line of work by her father. She instead took up work as a mercenary, and eventually met Matt after he saved her life.

The one with the scariest glare.

Born on October 29th, age 17.

Class: Falcon Knight (**Lance**|**Staff**)

**No.005 Marius**

A peculiar fighter hailing from Stormguard. Initially striving to be a scholar, Marius studied magic diligently throughout his childhood. However, he shifted priorities when bands of rogue dark mages attacked the settlement. With his interesting combination of swords, Anima, and throwing axes, he joined the enthusiastic Justice Brigade to put his skills to the test.

The one with the worst sense of humor.

Born on April 1st, age 20.

Class: Dread Fighter (**Sword**|**Axe**|**Anima**)

**No.006 Valkus**

A Valmese quartermaster who tolerates nonsense of no kind. After a false claim of fraudulence, Valkus chartered a ship to the Ylissean continent. She joined the Justice Brigade after falling to them in a battle to mete out justice for herself and others. How this beauty's personality meshes with the jovial brigade is a mystery.

The most likely to enjoy taking inventory.

Born on March 25th, age 28.

Class: General (**Lance**|Axe)

**No.007 ?**

…

**No.008 Lester**

A seasoned veteran and guardian of Ylissean royalty. Lester began his training for knighthood at the young age of seven. He failed to protect the lord he was sworn to from a powerful East Feroxian warlord. He formed the Ylissean Vanguard in an attempt right the mistakes that he brought upon the halidom.

The longest bather.

Born on May 15th, age 20.

Class: Paladin (**Sword**|**Lance**)

**No.009 Desmond**

One of the rare taguel who bounced back from the brink of extinction. Desmond is one of the few taguel who have refused to their cultural roots of warren life. He trained under a man who fought against the Gray Claw, a taguel purist society that threatened his home. He refuses to use his beaststone.

The one with the biggest rock collection.

Born on August 8th, age 19.

Class: Taguel Fighter (**Axe**|Beaststone)

**No.010 Samuel**

An Ylissean priest of minor nobility. His rigorous education led him to priesthood, where he trained in the Holy Church of Naga to heal his allies. After being denied entry to the Ylissean military, he was recruited by Lester to heal for the Ylissean Vanguard.

The best at insulting others.

Born on July 14th, age 21.

Class: Scholar (**Staff**|**Anima**)

**No.011 Brooks**

A mage of Ylissean background that has traveled the world across. With his traveling mage caravan, he saw the shores of Valm, the peaks of both Feroxes, the sands of Plegia, and the rolling hills of Ylisse. Longing to be greater than an entertainer, he left his caravan to create his own adventures.

The one with dirt on absolutely everyone.

Born on March 10th, age 25.

Class: Mage (**Anima**)

**No.012 Esthara**

An Ylissean tactician in training. She wields the legendary weapon Mercurius, one of the three regalia of old, given to her as a gift by her professor. Studying under the legendary tactician and professor Kairos, she aims to one day match the intellectual might of the most famous tacticians in history.

The lightest sleeper.

Born on November 19, age 19.

Class: Strategist (**Sword**)

**No.013 Christopher**

A masked prodigy dark mage who shortens his name to Chris. His skill comes from necessity, having lived his most of his life around bandits and thieves. He trained under a Plegian outlaw sorcerer, partaking in both assassinations and thefts. After being conned into murdering his parents, he took up his father's mask and fled to Abnorun, a Plegian border town. He shares a proficiency in shadow with Nila.

The giddiest laugher.

Born on October 4th, age 16.

Class: Dark Mage (**Dark**|**Anima**, **Dark** enhanced from Shadowgift)

**No.014 Grace**

A nimble and powerful Ylissean myrmidon. Her father and older sister served as fighters for the Plegian Mercenaries years ago, a fateful mission taking her father's life and causing her sister to vanish. At the age of only fifteen, she picked up the pieces of her shattered life and became a wanderer with her mother. Finding herself a mercenary after her mother's recent death, she will invoke any means necessary to stay on her feet.

The most sentimental.

Born on September 19, age 19.

Class: Myrmidon (**Sword**)

***New* No.015 Iris**

The royal hierophant of the Plegian Court. She and the Autumn Queen Meliora have been great friends for many years, alongside the parents of both Nila and Grace. Désirée, Nila's mother, worked alongside Iris to put Meliora in power twenty years ago. The six friends have shared many an adventure, but Iris is definitely hiding something…

The one with her eyes on the horizon.

Born on February 15, age 43.

Class: Hierophant (**Dark**|**Anima**|**Staff**|**Rapier**)

***New* No.016 Bell**

A Valmese fighter whose travels have landed him in Abnorun. Previously an orphan, he found himself running with the worst types of crowds. He traveled to Ylisse to escape his past, but much of his experiences are unknown. Even his real name is shrouded in mystery.

The most fiercely protective.

Born on September 30th, age 28.

Class: Fighter (**Axe**)

* * *

**Guests**

**Meliora**

The noble and pragmatic Autumn Queen of Plegia. Most of her past is shrouded in mystery, even from her closest remaining friend, Iris. She feels uncomfortable in violent situations, but always strives for her people to see a brighter tomorrow.

The most chilling presence.

Born on September 7th, age 41.

Class: Queen (**Sword**)

**Dom**

Otherwise known as Dominic, this man is the go-to blacksmith of Abnorun. Some people say they've seen him in cities all over the world, but he claims that he was born and raised in Abnorun. Has a fondness for beautiful women paralleled by few.

The most strangely familiar.

Born on May 5th, age 28.

Class: Blacksmith (**Axe, Hammer only**)


	9. 6: Reach of the Divine Dragon, Part II

"An Expiration?! What in the gods' names do you mean by a damn Expiration?"

Nila, who had been ever quiet after the events of the incident that led to the near-destruction of the Abnorun Palace, soon found words surging from his mouth. Chris, the bearer of news to Nila, stood with his arms wrapped tightly in his dark robes, watching the tactician spew venom.

"I'll tell you what that was, that was a gods' damned display of terror! Have you even _seen_ what I've done to this place?"

"Nila, everything is alright," Chris broke in, laying a comforting hand on the enraged tactician's shoulder, "I can—"

The tactician tore Chris' hand from his shoulder, pointing an accusatory finger at the younger Plegian.

"No, everything's _not alright! _I'm twenty-four years old, I don't need some damned kid telling me that what I did is okay! Did you even _look_ at the Son over there? And you—" the tactician shifted his gaze and his finger to Grace, who was timidly standing next to the black-dressed Iris, "You nearly died! I almost _killed_ you! And you don't even care about that!"

"Of course I care!" Grace shouted, her volume matching Nila's, "But I'm still here, and you're still here. No one died except for the bastard on the floor and his friends. That matters more than anything else!"

"Why the hell aren't you upset? I—"

The dark-robed Chris shoved Nila into a blackened wall, cutting off his infuriated ranting. The tactician let out a pained grunt as the weight of the impact pressed into his still-wounded right shoulder.

"Nila," the dark mage said with an impatient tone, carefully articulating his words, "I know exactly what happened. I will explain it to you. But first, I need you to calm down. Do you understand?"

Nila's breaths came rapidly, equal parts from panic and anger. He fumed for some time while Chris held him firmly in place against the wall. Eventually, the Plegian tactician managed a nod.

"Good. Now we just need to collect the Queen, and we can be on our way. If I remember correctly, she should be on the balcony."

The dark mage motioned for Iris to follow him, and the two exited through the sole remaining door at the back of the room, untouched from the earlier magical catastrophe. Their departure, however, left Nila and Grace in a heavy, unbearable silence.

The Plegian tactician took a seat on the ruined bedspread, and gave Grace a remorseful look. Whatever expression she had, Nila couldn't see. The myrmidon had since turned from the room, and instead gazed into the black abyss just outside.

"Have you calmed down now?" Grace asked, keeping her gaze faced away from Nila. He nodded, but quickly corrected his mistake and let out a soft _yes_. The myrmidon gave a quiet sigh before turning back to Nila. The corners of her eyes were red and visibly damp, revealing her hidden emotions.

"Good. I don't ever want to see you that way again. It isn't you."

"I'm so sorry, Grace," the Plegian murmured, as if he had expended the whole of his voice, "I don't know why I acted the way I did. It just… came out."

"It's fine. We have more important things to worry about now, anyway."

Bringing their conversation to an unexpected halt, Chris and Iris pushed open the balcony door, struggling to carry a burden between the two of them.

"Nila, out of the way," Chris commanded, at which Nila nodded and stepped away from the tattered bedside. The two dark-dressed people stepped in tandem, laying the collapsed form of Meliora on the dusty red sheets. Iris drew her staff, violet light once again rising up the gilded pole as she channeled magical energy into it. Nila watched over the sight, his expression once again becoming that of concern.

"Did I… do that?" Nila asked hesitantly.

"Yes, but you mustn't worry," Chris reassured, "I saw it from the courtyard. Your Expiration sent her head into the balcony guardrail. She's unconscious and her head is bleeding, but her skull seems to be intact. Speaking of…" The dark mage grabbed Nila by the arm, coaxing him towards the ruined doorway. He shot Grace a look before continuing.

"Now would be as good a time as any to explain to both of you what exactly just happened. You two seem close, so I don't believe you see a problem with this, Nila."

As Chris finished his sentence, Nila could have sworn he saw a certain look flash across Grace's eyes, if only for a moment. He brushed it off as his mind manipulating what his eyes saw, as it so often did, before Chris clapped his hands together once for attention and started speaking again.

"I suppose we should start with the basics. How are you feeling?"

"Alright, I suppose," Nila responded, "My left arm isn't working and I'm almost as bright as a torch, but I'm fine otherwise."

"Your left wouldn't happen to be the same arm you cast spells from, would it?" Chris took a moment to assess Nila's face, apparently learning enough from the tactician's eyes to continue rather than letting him respond himself. "That is normal, not to worry. It should be back to normal in the matter of an hour. An Expiration is no easy thing to cast. You are summoning the power of death incarnate. It takes from you nearly as much as it does those it strikes."

He kicked the dead Son once before cringing and pushing the corpse from the room. He shuddered as the corpse's face rose up to meet his, and quickly darted back inside.

"His life," the dark mage stated flatly, an odd transition from his recent, slightly disturbed state, "Your arm, your usual range of motion, and oddly, your hair color."

Chris pointed to his own strands of hair, specifically the many white flecks speckled through a thin sea of brown.

"I'm not sure why it happens, myself," the Plegian mage pondered, "But every cast turns more and more of your hair white. I've speculated that it's due to a rapid buildup and high concentration of dark energy, but I cannot say so definitely."

"Wait," Nila interjected as he put fragments of Chris' statement together in his mind, "That would mean you've cast your fair share of Expirations. Am I wrong?"

Chris didn't immediately respond, but what little of his face was visible revealed a slightly forlorn demeanor.

"…Yes," Chris nodded hesitantly, "I've Expired far more times than most would care to admit. For many reasons and at varying strengths, but many have found an end at an Expiration of mine. And I'm certainly not proud of it."

"In that case, why don't we see many more… _explosions_ like this one on a regular basis?" Grace asked, speaking up for the first time, "Being of Fell blood isn't exactly rare."

"Not every cast is as wild and destructive as this one," the dark mage explained, turning to acknowledge the maroon-haired woman, "Most Fellblood are aware the dangers of such destructive power, so it is rarely used to begin with. Those who do use it, however, keep the channeled energy low. Expiration usually appears similar to Mire or Goetia while still retaining most of its power."

Chris' gaze turned back to Nila before continuing.

"Who exactly was the Fellblood in your family, anyway? You're much older than I, and yet you know so little."

"My mother," Nila affirmed.

"Did you not notice any white hair on your mother's head? Did she ever explain anything to you?"

"Just one long, thin lock. I had always assumed it was dye until now. But no, she rarely mentioned a word about my blood. She always told me that some things were better left unexplained."

Chris' expression soured as Nila spoke.

"That was completely irresponsible of her. As a Fellblood, she should have known how important it was for you to be aware of this. But now that you know of its destructive power, I implore you to _never_ Expire again, no matter the circumstances. Some power is best left undisturbed. A lesson I have learned the hard way."

"After _that_," Nila said, shooting a glance at the fallen Son, "you don't need to tell me twice."

After a moment of silence, the tactician soon noticed that his fellow Plegian's gaze was pointed just over his shoulder, even with the ivory mask concealing his eyes. Nila turned to follow his eyes, and was greeted with the sight of Queen Meliora rising from the bedsheets, clutching the back of her skull. She stared at Nila, Chris, and Grace for some time, probably letting her blurred vision clear, before uttering, "Nila, I admire your dedication for protecting your queen, but let the next time be much, much less explosive. Please."

"Y-your Grace," Nila sputtered, dropping to a knee, "I apologize. Forgive me."

The Autumn Queen rolled her eyes before pulling herself from the bed and onto the floor. She stumbled briefly before returning to a regal, upright standing position.

"Nila, please. We've been over this before," she insisted, but her words got her nowhere. The tactician refused to move from his spot on the ground, his gaze held low. Meliora took several furtive steps over to Nila before forcefully pulling from his knees.

"You're just like your mother. I haven't decided whether or not it is a good thing yet."

The queen turned to the other three, beckoning them from the shattered bedroom with a flick of her head.

"Come on, we're leaving."

Chris and Iris quickly fell in step with their queen, who moved quickly, despite being so heavily armored. Grace was slightly slower to react, as she took her time watching Nila before taking steps of her own. As soon as she put weight on her left leg, she let out a pained yelp and fell to the floor. Nila was instantly at her side, Iris not a moment behind him. The hierophant shooed him away before drawing her staff.

"Grace!" she exclaimed, kneeling down beside the fallen myrmidon, "Are you alright, dear? Where does it hurt?"

"My… leg…" she managed to spit out. Iris channeled a soothing healing spell before her pained sentence was finished. Grace's skin was slow to react, but her skin eventually reformed and sealed over the torn flesh. The Ylissean stood, tentatively putting weight on the leg, and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thank you, Iris," she said, giving the dark-dressed woman a soft smile. The hierophant smiled back before a realization crossed her mind, forcing her gaze downward.

In a much softer voice than her previous exclamation, she muttered, "Not a problem. But remember, it's only a quick fix. Try not to hurt it again."

Several moments passed in silence before Nila looked up from his glowing arm to observe the scene in front of him. Iris had since started staring at him, her expression was one of concern.

…How long had he been staring at his arm?

"Is there anything I can do for him?" she asked, her grip tightening on her staff as she addressed the masked man.

Chris shook his head softly, and pursed his lips in contemplation.

"I'm afraid not," he advised, "Unfortunately, his damage goes much further beyond what traditional healing staves can comprehend. If I was him, I would rest here as long as I was able."

"No, no," Nila assured, "I'm fine. Let's leave this terrible place and find Matt and the others. They're no doubt worried about us."

The tactician's Fellblood-brother looked him up and down once, an unsure expression on his face. He gave a heavy sigh before turning away from Nila.

"So you're the stubborn one. Stubborn _and_ prone to mood swings. I will admit that I didn't quite expect that out of you."

"I—wha…?" Nila balked, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Absolutely nothing. But you said it yourself: it's high time we left the palace. So what are we waiting for?"

The dark mage gave his Queen a nod, and the three exited the ruined room at a brisk run. Grace lingered behind, a curious gaze fixed upon her friend.

"Aren't you coming?" she inquired, her curiosity quickly transitioning to confusion. Nila nodded quickly.

"Of course. I'm right behind you."

The Plegian struggled to take a step forward, his legs feeling as if they were bogged down in heavy quicksand. He was barely able to move on his own, but eventually managed a single shaky step. Nila attempted a second, only to stumble forward. Grace's arms were in the path of his fall more quickly than he realized, and he soon found himself safely in the arms of his friend.

Grace propped Nila up before shooting him a look of concern.

"You're _sure_ that you're okay?"

The tactician was quiet for some time before he sighed and threw his sole working hand up in defeat.

"Alright, alright. Maybe I'm not."

"Perfect," she beamed, her smile somewhere in between genuinely pleased and mischievous. Nila's expression quickly soured as he struggled to comprehend what exactly Grace was planning.

"What are you—gah!"

His sentence was quickly brought to a halt as the maroon-haired myrmidon scooped him up in her arms, a cocky grin plastered over her face. Nila remained in stunned silence for a moment, a thousand different thoughts running through his head. But the novelty of the situation quickly wore off, and he started to struggle.

"A-are you sure you can carry me around like this?" he stuttered, only to be met by an even bigger grin from Grace.

"Positive. Now let's catch up to the others, they're no doubt waiting for us."

Despite such a heavy burden in her arms, Grace was surprisingly quick. She bounded down the abyss-turned hall with a lithe spring in her step. Even in the consuming darkness of the passageway, Grace carried on with a rigorous fervor that Nila couldn't help but respect.

At the same time, Nila felt the telltale presence of Other Nila resurface, but the malicious voice had nothing to say about the situation. Still, his mere presence was volumes more than a simple off-putting sensation. In combination with the general gloomy atmosphere, the Plegian found himself curling up in Grace's arms, hoping for the fear to withdraw.

The moment, both serene and flesh-crawling, came to an end as quickly as it started. As Nila and Grace made it to the well-lit common area just at the top of the stairs, Other Nila vanished in tandem with the gloom, almost as if he had never been there in the first place.

Nila glanced down the stairs to discover that Chris, Iris, and Meliora were waiting just below. Grace must have figured it out as well, as the two were soon descending down the stairs together. Eventually, the five allies were united once again in the red carpeted hallway in front of the indoor fountain. Iris seemed genuinely pleased to see the two together, to Nila's surprise.

Before anyone was able to say a word or move a step, however, an ear-splitting crack emanated throughout the empty entrance foyer. A sole, wooden-shafted ballista bolt crashed through the high-vaulted ceiling, landing square in the center of the long, red carpet. A devastating shockwave immediately followed, sending everyone stumbling to the floor. Grace fought to make sure Nila didn't fall from her arms, but even she was powerless to stop him from being violently thrown into the floor.

It was as if the world itself was crumbling around the five: stone fragments descended from the ceiling, shattering instantly as they stuck against the sturdy floor. As quickly as it started, though, the crumbling ended. Nila managed to find the strength to pull himself into a weak standing position with the help of an untouched stair bannister.

The damage was simply devastating. Parts of the ceiling had become dislodged, and were scattered around the expansive entrance hall. The worst of the damage was centered around the main entrance, which was completely sealed off with debris. The cracks running up the segments of wall that were still mostly in one piece were hardly reassuring.

It was evident that the rest of the palace was soon to follow.

"Well, isn't that perfect?" Grace spat, brushing a loose strand of maroon hair from her eyes, "Right in front of the entrance."

The myrmidon hoisted herself from the ground, slowly approaching Queen Meliora. The Autumn Queen responded without meeting her eyes, gaze affixed to the ruined entrance.

"That was the only way," she stated plainly, a quivering fear present in the back of her throat. "Unless any of you have a bright idea, this place will soon become our tomb."

"Haven't you Plegians gotten around to designing a modern fire code yet?" Grace seethed, clenching the skin of her forehead, "Fine, fine. It's okay. I'll go see if I can find a loose section of wall."

The queen, her advisor, and the dark mage engaged in a low-voiced conversation while Grace ran her pale fingers over the sandstone walls. Nila, however, occupied his time with the ballista bolt in the center of the room.

The massive bolt seemed almost out of place in its Plegian surroundings. Its shaft was dark-wooded and hardy, while the bolt head was crafted with a dark gray iron; two design features not typically present in traditional Plegian weaponry. The tactician was transfixed on the bolt, his surroundings melting away in a sea of gray and yellow.

Where had he seen this before? Had he seen this before?

But as is inevitable with the ocean, the tide washed in, focusing Nila on reality.

"Is there supposed to be a keyhole in this wall?" Grace piped up, standing next to a mostly inconspicuous portion of sand-yellow wall. It took Nila a moment to tear his gaze away from the bolt and study the wall, but there was indeed a tiny keyhole lodged into the gap between two bricks. On the floor just below lay the shattered remnants of a portrait featuring a man Nila wasn't able to recognize. Messy red hair and a wispy beard to match adorned the man's face, and a gaudy crown sat upon his head.

"I… I've never seen that before," Meliora responded, running an olive-tinted finger over the slight indent, "Simply remarkable…"

"You wouldn't happen to have a key, would you?" Grace questioned further. Whatever hopes she had, however, were dashed with the simple shaking of Meliora's head.

"I'm afraid not. To be honest, I'm not sure a key even exists for that anymore. The lock seems to be quite old."

"Not to worry. I'm sure I can crack it open in a few minutes."

Grace rifled through her pack before pulling out a black-steel lockpick and a tension wrench. She wasted little time, and was digging into the wall with furor not a moment later.

"Y-you know how to pick locks?" Nila blurted, the notion not able to fit with his existing schema of his sweet childhood friend.

"Of course. Every girl learns her most valuable life-skills from her mother, after all."

"I didn't know Serena was a thief…"

"Not a thief," the myrmidon corrected with a half-joking, half-annoyed tone, "A locksmith… I think. Picking locks comes with the business, or so I was told."

Grace put a heavier bit of pressure on the wall-lock, causing it to snap open with a satisfying clang. A handle, which had previously blended in immaculately with its surroundings, pushed from the wall, ready to be pulled. The wall-door yielded quite readily to the myrmidon's tug to reveal a thin, dark set of descending stairs. Exactly how far down they traveled was obscured by layers of dust and darkness.

"And there you have it. After you, Queen Meliora."

Without a second of hesitation, the Autumn Queen descended down the time-worn steps. Her first footfall sent a cloud of dust billowing into the air. Iris followed her queen closely, with Chris close behind.

With the other three tucked away into the passages, Grace turned to Nila, holding her arms out expectantly. But the Plegian simply held a hand up, shook his head, and plodded slowly towards the dark entrance with nary a second glance.

While Nila found his condition improving, it was a far-cry from a full recovery. He could walk, of course, but his left arm still hung uselessly at his side. As he descended down the cold, gray steps, Grace's presence and the soft glow emanating from his veins was enough to keep his paranoia at bay.

But a rumbling, identical to the tremors only a few minutes ago, would soon disrupt Nila's unstable sense of security. Grace immediately picked up on what was happening, and scooped the unsuspecting tactician up and over her shoulder before running down the steps two at a time. It wasn't long before she caught up to Iris, Chris, and Meliora, the former two both brandishing conjured fire lights over outstretched hands. The three Plegians had broken out in panicked dashes of their own, magical fires extinguishing, as catastrophic tremors enveloped the passage.

* * *

Marius held his snake-wrapped soothing sword firmly in front of him, its razor-sharp blade pointed at a lance-wielding Daughter of Naga. The four of them—Chast, Valkus, Dom, and himself—had been ambushed as they traveled towards the crumbling palace, and Marius found himself backed into a corner of an alleyway against an adversary with an unfortunate weapon advantage. Wherever the others had ended up was beyond him.

The Dread Fighter had no options to exploit while at such a range disadvantage, a fact that the Daughter keenly picked up on. She wasted no time, thrusting her spear straight towards Marius' chest. His sword was quicker than her hands, however, and her bronze-tipped weapon found nothing but the sleek surface of his blade. The green-tipped lance bounced uselessly to the cultist's side.

This did little to deter the Daughter, however, and she immediately followed up with a second thrust. Marius proved swifter once again, blocking the blow with ease. The cultist struck blow after blow, each one clanging off of Marius' steel blade.

"They don't make bad guys like they used to," the Dread Fighter quipped, giving the Daughter a cocky smirk, "The Easterners were much more fun to play with than you are."

Marius saw the rage pour through her veins, only proving to widen his smile. This was the chance he was looking for. The Daughter's blows became much more powerful, being driven by fury instead of the focus she displayed before. In no time at all, the Feroxian Dread Fighter worked his way within the cultist's elbow reach, swiftly disarming her with a quick blow to her hands. She had played right into Marius' hands.

The tables had turned, and the Daughter now found herself backed into an opposite corner. Marius drew his dusty brown spellbook from his belt, working a Thunder spell around his sword hand. The Dread Fighter sheathed his sword, and pressed his now free hand into the Daughter's neck. She briefly screamed in pain before dropping limply to the ground, a black hand mark around her neck to show from the confrontation.

"That was shocking," Marius said with a laugh, giving the Daughter one final kick with his black leather boots stepping out into the smoke-filled Abnorun streets. But he misjudged exactly how clouded the streets were, and inhaled a mouthful of the acrid, black gas. As he choked, Marius managed to draw his spellbook once again, channeling a weak wind spell through his outstretched hand to blow away most of the choking gas. Despite his efforts, it was still incredibly difficult to breathe.

Aside from the roaring of fire, not a sound could be heard. Marius figured that most of the citizens would have escaped at best, or lost their lives at worst. He shuddered as he thought of how many might have died in the assault, each one a personal loss for the Justice Brigade. Chris had cried out to them for aid, but all he was given was a burning city and broken bodies lining the streets. And to make matters worse, there was still an unknown amount of Sons creeping throughout the darkened streets.

Aside from his allies and the enemy, Marius was entirely alone.

The Dread Fighter's ears pricked as soft footsteps joined the infernal chorus, and he unsheathed his sword as he turned to meet the newcomers. To his relief, Chast, Valkus, and Dom stepped from the shadows. The three of them were quite worse for wear; Chast's breastplate was still broken in two from her engagement with the musclebound, axe-wielding Son from before, while the latter two had various bruises and breaks in their armor.

"Marius!" Chast called, placing a hand to her chest in relief, "Oh, thank the gods it's you!"

"Any luck finding Matt or the others, Marius?" Valkus implored, wasting no time to shift the discussion to business. "I don't want to leave anyone behind, but this smoke just keeps getting worse and worse…"

The Dread Fighter gave a frown, indicative of his results.

"No luck on my end, Valk. Just smoke, some Sons, and a lot of dust."

"You too, huh…" Valkus said with dejectment, "Unfortunately, the three of us have seen nothing different than you have since we were separated.

"Do you think Matt's okay?" Marius' question was sudden, yet filled with hesitation. He was frustrated that he had held doubts for his leader, but the gravity of the situation had posed a question to him since the very beginning of the attack.

What if Matt wasn't coming back?

Valkus must have gone through a similar thought process, as she found herself lost for words as she started to answer Marius' question. She looked down, but the small portion of her eyes that Marius could see were filled with sullenness and uncertainty.

She then lifted her chin up, trying to put on the bravest face she could for her companions.

"I… I don't know," she managed to say, something akin to trembling at the back of her throat. She then fell silent, averting her gaze from her friends.

"Hey, you don't think that…" Chast trailed off, unable to bring herself to say what everyone else was thinking.

Valkus tried to finish her friend's sentence, but she couldn't find the strength. Her voice was no more than a murmur as she spoke, "I just don't know anymore… We don't know where he left to this morning, and the entire town is on fire…"

She sighed, clutching her black-tipped lance close to her armored body. In her suit of armor, Valkus always looked larger and braver than she really was. But now she looked… small. She looked more like a lost, young child than the powerful, no-nonsense second-in-command that Marius had always looked up to.

"Matt always had a way of pulling everyone together," she said, holding back tears, "but without him… I don't think we can continue our mission any longer. We need to escape."

Marius' eyes widened in shock, but Valkus' statement nearly sent Chast reeling backwards in bewilderment.

"What? You're not serious, are you?" The silence that followed the Falcon Knight's question was more than a sufficient answer, yet Valkus interjected regardless.

"We have no other choice."

Chast wasted no time in responding after slamming the base of her blessed lance into the ground. "We _always_ have a choice! We've been in bleak situations before!"

"None as bleak as this one, I'm afraid…"

The white-armored Falcon Knight stood in silence for a moment, looking her friend up and down.

"I can't believe how easy this is for you."

Chast's accusation was the final act that shoved Valkus' gloom into all-out fury. Her eyes filled with fires even more intense than the ones consuming Abnorun as she grabbed Chast by the neck, pulling her in close.

"Do you think this is easy for me?" she snarled, shoving the frightened Falcon Knight to the ground, "I'd rather tear my heart out with my bare hands then leave Matt behind! He's done too much for me to throw it away!"

She paused for a moment, her senses finally catching up to her after being clouded by her emotions. One look at Chast, sprawled out on the ash-covered Abnorun streets, was all it took for Valkus to have guilt etched into her face. She was quick calm down and retreat back inside her shell, literally and figuratively.

The general sat down inside her armor, becoming fully immersed by the breastplate's massive size. It was only in moments like these that Marius understood how small Valkus was.

Marius helped Chast to her feet while Valkus continued speaking in a strained, choked up voice voice, "But Matt also taught me self-preservation. He said that if something like this ever happened to him, he was trusting me to make sure you all stay safe. That means you, Marius, Hunter… gods know where he is either…"

"A hell of a leader I'm turning out to be, huh?" Valkus gave one final dejection of herself before falling silent, hidden away in her suit of armor.

After Chast recovered to her feet, she placed a hand at the base of her neck. From the red outlines of Valkus' fingers, it was glaringly obvious that she was still in pain. She blew air from her nose angrily, somewhere between a huff and a sigh before turning to Marius.

"What are you waiting for?" she spat, "Say something to her! She just won't see reason…"

The Feroxian Dread Fighter looked at Chast, then shifted his gaze to the broken Valkus several paces away. Why couldn't Chast see the damage that she was doing?

"You're really not making this any better." Marius' words were flat, so much so that Chast practically recoiled in shock. Such an expression was so far beyond the Dread Fighter's upbeat personality that she simply couldn't comprehend it.

"W-wha…?"

Marius turned towards the Falcon Knight, his eyes darkly staring her down. So much so that it was disturbing to the white-haired Ylissean.

"If Matt's alive, he'll find his way to us. Leaving him behind tears me up inside as much as any of you!"

With his angered yelling out of the way, Marius seemed to quite heavily deflate. Holding that kind of a tone with his closest friend was too exhausting for him to handle for too long. Eventually, he settled with a simple, sad stare.

"Matt's my best friend," he said, this time much more quietly and gently, "And like Valkus said, he's our foundation; our emotional crutch. It's difficult to give someone up like that, I know. But sometimes, you have to be selfish to keep yourself and the ones around you alive."

For a moment, Chast was stunned to the spot with an uncertain, yet slightly remorseful expression on her face. It wasn't often that Marius took such an offensive tone—so long that he could hardly recall the last time he acted in that way—and the weight of his words seemed to knock the stubborn Falcon Knight down, if only for a moment.

However, she managed to find her feet in no time at all. She turned away from Valkus—who had since emerged from her suit of armor—and Marius, her hands balled into white-knuckled fists.

"Fine," she spat, "If that's how the two of you feel, I'm going back in alone. To hell with you."

Valkus immediately stepped to Chast's side, grabbing her wrist to slow her down. The Falcon Knight immediately pulled away, glaring daggers at her companion.

"You can't go in there alone!" Valkus urged, trying once again to hold Chast in place. The Ylissean, however, deftly pulled her wrist away from the general's outstretched hand.

"I'm just being selfish! 'Keeping the ones around me alive.' That's a good thing, is it not?"

Marius covered his face with a hand, both out of embarrassment and to hide his anger towards his Ylissean friend.

"That isn't what I meant and you know it," he said with a warning tone, fingernails digging into his forehead.

Chast held her arms out wide, the reflection of the flames behind her glinting off her vibrantly white armor. With her accompanying red eyes, she seemed almost demonic against her surroundings.

"Well, who's going to stop me?" Chast taunted, "I doubt you two will do anything about it. When you get right down to it, all you two care about are yourselves! I'm going to save Matt, Hunter, Nila, and everyone else! And I don't need your help to do it!"

Chast's infuriating and downright childish behavior caused Marius to grit his teeth in frustration. Just then, however, a sickeningly cruel idea popped into his head. He knew if he spat the words out, there'd be no going back. But a small voice in the back of his head told him it would be the only way to keep Chast from harm's way.

He breathed in and out once heavily, a determined look in his eyes before he spoke.

"What about Owar? What am I supposed to tell her if we find your burned corpse in the city streets?"

The Falcon Knight's cocky, determined expression melted away to reveal a glowering, furious one. While his words seemed to commanded Chast's attention, Marius was well aware that he stepped over several carefully-placed boundaries.

"You do _not_ use Owar as a bargaining chip!"

Marius had seen Chast angry before, albeit usually directed at enemies, but this fury was unlike anything that he had ever seen. Especially now that he found himself pressed against a stone wall, with Chast's frightening red eyes only inches away from his face. All the while, brittle, burnt pieces of stone bounced rhythmically off of his head, which didn't seem to bother Chast at all.

Valkus was quick to pull the infuriated Chast off of Marius. Their physical confrontation had started Valkus' tears again, which were streaming slowly down her cheeks. They were only given away by the bright light of fire surrounding the three.

Valkus opened her mouth, as if to say something, but instead turned her head to the sky, a perplexed look about her as she halted her speech immediately. She listened for a moment, her head shifting quickly every which way.

"D-did anyone else hear that?" she asked, her voice still trembling from her flood of emotions. Even still, she kept her gaze pointed upwards, trying to determine the source of the noise.

"Trouble?" the previously silent Dom demanded, his grip tightening on his mighty hammer. It was only now that Marius realized that the blacksmith had been patiently watching the other three dispute the entire time, not once interfering in their business.

Whether Valkus noticed or not was beyond him. But she shook her head to answer Dom's question.

"No… more like… the flapping of wings."

"Leathery or feathered?" Chast broke in, her previous hostility seemingly melted away. From her new, vaguely affable demeanor combined with the bizarre question, she yielded three very baffled stares from her companions.

The blacksmith was the first to voice the group's question. "…There's a difference?"

"Of course there's a difference! One sounds more like a—"

Chast immediately ceased her speech as a white, yet slightly blackened feather tumbled out of the smoke and flames, coming to rest right at her feet. She picked it up, careful not to damage its delicate fibers. Without so much as a second glance, the Falcon Knight declared, "It's Owar."

Right on cue, the smog-filled sky seemed to open up over the four, revealing a majestic, yet slightly singed, white pegasus. The winged horse landed gracefully on the street in a cloud of dust and ash, and her Knight wasted no time in rushing over to her and throwing her hands around her long, maned neck.

"Owar…" Chast whispered, tightening her grip on Owar's neck, "Oh, thank the gods that you're okay… But how did you—"

"Get out of the stables? With a little help from me, of course!"

The ground itself trembled as a massive wyvern fell from the clouds of smoke and crashed into the ground, sending small fragments of stone flying in every direction. The dragon let out a deafening bellow, rearing up on his two sturdy legs before craning its neck downwards and allowing his three passengers to dismount.

The first off the beast was a gray armored, bespectacled man that Marius wasn't able to recognize. But the Dread Fighter could remember the azure armor and black fighter robes of the other two men anywhere.

The three men dismounted from the wyvern's back, their breathing rate quickly increased as they adjusted to the smoke-filled streets of the city below.

"Gods, it's hotter than the center of Demon's Ingle down here!" he said, a jubilant smile upon his face. But as he met the gaze of his three friends and their slightly-confused blacksmith associate, his face instantly hardened.

"Hey, you three alright?" he asked, "Don't look at me that way."

Valkus took a cautious step forward, still clutching her lance close to her chest with both hands. Before long, she started to tremble, and eventually dropped the lance to the street below. She ran forward, tightly embracing her returning friend. Needless to say, Matt was perplexed about Valkus' notably uncharacteristic change of attitude.

"W-whoa, what's all this about, Valk?"

"You're not _ever _leaving m-my side again without telling me first, you hear?" she stuttered, pausing for a moment to take in a shaky breath, "Otherwise I'll hit y-you over the head_so hard_ that—"

"Calm down, Valkus," the wyvern-rider spoke reassuringly, accepting the general's embrace, "I'm okay. Did you really think that a few religious extremists would be able to take me on? Not a chance."

The general clung to her friend, weeping softly as she tightened her grip. Matt held her close, gently caressing her smooth, yet slightly singed, black hair. As the two embraced, none spoke a word. The roaring of fire in the background was the only sound to be heard.

All the while, Marius gently held Chast's shoulder as she stood in solemnity. But he was no fool. Marius could see the reflection of the surrounding flames beneath her similarly-colored eyes, just as he was certain Chast saw the same in him. The Falcon Knight even shot him a teary, yet clearly angered glance before turning away.

It was remarkable how distant their previous disagreement was. Aside from Chast's one hateful glance, all the problems they had argued over seemed to have vanished in an instant. But at the same time, Marius felt it to be unnatural that Matt's arrival solved their problem so quickly.

Just what the hell was his problem? What was wrong with everyone else?

The two broke off eventually, Valkus much more calm and Matt far more serious than he was upon his arrival.

"Better?" Matt asked, a tinge of empathy in his words.

Valkus gave a small nod, wiping the last of the tears from her eyes. However, she opted to remain quiet.

"We'll talk more once we get out of this mess. But have I a hell of a tale to tell."

– – –

"So you're Bell?"

Marius listened into the group's conversation as he faced away, casting Wind spell after Wind spell to keep the smoke at bay. He wasn't sure who asked the question, but he didn't mind much given the gravity of the situation. The group had since moved themselves into the alleyway that Marius had fought the lance-wielding Daughter in. Surprisingly, no one besides Dom showed any amount of disgust about the slightly burned cultist lying dead in the faraway corner.

While Marius worked, his mind drifted back to the dispute between Chast, Valkus, and him only minutes ago. He found himself disgusted that the three of them were so inept as functioning as a team without Matt's help, and how quickly their leader was able to diffuse the situation just with his presence. All those hateful things the three of them had said to each other churned in his stomach like a poorly-digested meal.

And Matt's arrival made it all seem like it never happened.

The Dread Fighter sighed and pushed those thoughts aside. There would be time to rebuild that burnt bridge later. He tuned back into the conversation, noting a slight pause in the gray-armored newcomer's speech, indicative of a nod.

"That's right," the bespectacled fighter confirmed, "At least, that's what I'd like you to call me."

Matt must have noticed some confusion in the group, as he broke in before anyone could question the fighter's word choice. "Bell and I talked on the flight over here. He'll be staying with us for awhile."

"Staying?" Again, the voice could have been Valkus or Chast's, interchangeably. The inferno drowned out any distinctions in their voices besides femininity.

Another small bout of silence. Bell most likely nodded.

"That's right. I've got no place to go, and your friend Matt decided to take me in. Hell of a guy, him."

All the while, Marius judged the path that the plumes of smoke took to the sky, and determined that it would be safe for him to return to the group. Making sure that his spellbook was safely put away and his sword was in its sheath, the dark-armored fighter stepped towards his companions. As he walked, Marius noticed that Chast and Valkus were seated quite far away from each other, refusing to look the other in the eye.

"Tch…" he muttered under his breath, "Those two…"

Marius took a seat on the ground next to Dom, careful to position himself so he would obstruct that blacksmith's view of the fallen Daughter's body. And thanks to Marius' new position, he was able to see Bell turn to face Matt, who he was seated next to.

"But from what you told your friend Hunter and I on the way over, there's more important things to tell." From the grave expression on the man's face, Marius knew whatever they had spoken of couldn't have been anything good. Matt's expression as he scratched the back of his head and Hunter's more-serious-than-usual face all but confirmed it.

"Right…" Matt trailed off, hesitation obvious in his inflection. He was quiet for a moment, but it wasn't long until he was urged on by the expectant stares from his fellow brigadiers. He continued, "I guess I'll start in order of importance. Remember that 'protector entity' that Chris asked us to find?"

Marius and the two women nodded. However, it was obvious that Dom found everything hard to digest without context.

"Does _anyone _want to tell me what's going on?" he demanded, an odd venture from his solemnity from earlier. His newfound curiosity was only met with a bone-breaking elbow from Valkus, seated on the other side of him. He gasped in shock and pain, falling in a heap onto a surprised Marius, who quickly shoved him onto the ash covered floor.

"Gah! What the hell was that for?"

Valkus leaned over him, her characteristic fire and no-nonsense attitude once again present in her eyes.

"Listen a little bit and you might learn something, dolt."

"Dolt?"

But as Matt so often did with the rest of the Justice Brigade, he managed to step in between Valkus and Dom's brewing dispute before it fell out of hand.

"The beginning would be as good a place to start as any, huh?" Matt said, immediately defusing the impending argument, "Let's start with what I've been up to this morning."

Once again, Marius found himself admiring how quickly Matt was able to draw attention to himself while keeping peace between forces at odds. Everyone sat, ready to listen.

They were a team again. How cohesively they would work together was yet to be seen, though.

Sensing that all eyes were upon him, Matt continued, "I left earlier this morning to track down the goal that Chris asked us to find in his letter. You remember what it was, right?"

The wyvern-rider turned to Valkus who was quick to nod in affirmation.

"Abnorun is missing their protector entity."

"That's right. Well, turns out that the manakete was never far from Abnorun to begin with. He's still in the city walls, as a matter of fact."

Looking around, Marius noted that everyone else was just as confused as he was, discounting Dom. Actually, Dom just seemed to be afflicted with stunned surprise rather than confusion.

"You found Jae?" the blacksmith asked, straightening up from a slumped-over sitting position, "It's been ages, I'll tell ya! Where is he?"

"Not far from here, actually," Matt responded, "I managed to catch a gold-armored knight with a teal cape go through a hidden doorway in some alleyway just as the sun came up. He came and left several times over the next few hours, and I decided to follow him in later in the morning."

From his position across from Dom, Marius was able to see something akin to recognition flash across Valkus' eyes. She then turned to Chast, who seemed to be lost in her thoughts.

"Didn't we see someone like that earlier today, Chast?"

The Falcon Knight simply hummed an affirmation and nodded, barely giving the general a glance.

"You saw him?" Matt asked, a hint of perplexion tinging his voice, "I was watching that spot all morning. How did I miss you?"

"Well, Chast was in plainclothes and and we didn't linger for too long. Perhaps you looked away at just the right moment?"

"That'd be pretty strange, but I don't think it matters too much," Matt pondered as he absentmindedly stroked his chin, "Because the part that really matters was after I followed the knight in. There's a door hidden in one of the walls, just out of sight. That's where they've been keeping the manakete."

"What are the odds that he's still there?" Marius asked, shifting slightly forwards, "Once the fires broke out, don't you think that they'd want to move him?"

"I thought that too," Matt replied, "But we at least have to look before we get out of here. We've come too far to back down now."

Upon hearing Matt's words, Marius swore that he saw Chast crack a smile, if only a small one. But just as quickly as it appeared, it vanished back beneath the irritated expression that she'd adopted after their argument.

But Chast would remain silent no longer, as she voiced the question that Marius had no doubt he and Valkus were also thinking, "Do you… do you know if everyone else is safe? Nila, Christopher… and the queen?"

Matt was quiet for a moment, but it wasn't long before he patted Hunter on the back, as if to urge him to depart from his strong, silent personality, if for a moment.

"Hunter can tell you about that. He was there."

The swordmaster's apathetic, slightly disinterested look did not falter even as all eyes rested upon him. He gazed around from person to person for a moment, taking in everyone's expression. Hunter eventually sighed, and opened his mouth to speak.

"I was at the palace not long ago," he recalled, "Right before the building went down."

Marius' heart dropped. He had just seen the palace earlier in the morning! There was no doubt that the fires were devastating, but for a catastrophe of that magnitude to have happened so quickly… It just didn't seem right.

And naturally, his voice reflected his thoughts as he stammered, "W-what? You mean the palace… has been destroyed?"

Hunter's expression, as unemotional as ever, offered only a simple nod.

"Unfortunately so. It fell after a few ballista shots."

"And now they have siege weapons?!" the Feroxian Dread Fighter exclaimed, baffled by all of the terrible surprises Hunter had laid bare in such a short time. Now would normally be the moment where Marius would respond with a trademark quip, and Matt would inspire everyone to keep pushing forward until the end.

But he couldn't find the strength. Of all the missions he had completed with the Brigade over the years, none of them had ever been as terrifyingly dangerous as this one.

"Where the hell could they be getting all that firepower from?" This time, it was Valkus who spoke up with a question. Marius was initially surprised, since he assumed she had been silently feuding with Chast. But even the stubborn Falcon Knight was engaged in the conversation, and was just as appalled as any other.

"I don't know," the swordmaster said with a shrug, "But they have pitch throwers and ballistae. Matt and I saw them after he found me in one of the streets."

"And that isn't all," Matt cut in, urgency in his voice, "Apparently Nila was still inside. Chris went in after him, but the entire thing came down only a few minutes after. I feel terrible saying this, but…"

The big wyvern master let out a heavy sigh, visibly deflating as he exhaled. Marius knew what was coming, but it still hurt. They had just met him a few days ago… and Chris the night before.

"They're probably both dead. And the queen might be sharing their grave too. So here's my plan: we find Jae, and we get out. We need to tell someone about what happened here. Plegia needs to kn—"

"I can't believe this. You too?"

Chast had finally broken her bout of silence, and had quickly taken a standing position. She was visibly trembling, too. Her anger must have pushed her over the edge.

"You're telling me that Hunter was there the _whole_ time, and he did absolutely nothing? What the hell were you thinking?!"

Hunter ascended from his sitting position, and looked the young Falcon Knight square in the eye, glaring daggers. But even as the usually-collected swordfighter met her gaze, she refused to back down.

"Don't start with me, little girl…" Hunter warned, taking slow, intimidating steps towards Chast. The Falcon Knight still refused to budge, but instead turned her attention away from the swordmaster and to the five others present.

"I expected this from all of you," she said, voice cracking slightly as she spoke, "but Matt and Hunter? You two should be ashamed of yourselves!"

Hunter backed off a little, his scowl yet remaining etched into his face. But the person Marius found himself enthralled with was Matt. He showed absolutely no signs of hostility to the enraged Chast. In fact, he seemed… disappointed. It was an expression that Marius never quite recalled their leader using before. He was always good-natured—affable, even—in even the most dire of circumstances. But not this time.

Matt refused to speak, which only served to fuel Chast's rage even further.

"Forget this," she spat, throwing her hands up and turning away from the group, "I'm not wasting my time. I'm going to find them on my own."

She then turned to Owar, who was resting towards the front of the alleyway alongside Matt's wyvern. As she stomped towards the pegasus, Chast skewered an empty wooden crate with her lance, sending splinters to the ground below.

The Falcon Knight wasted no time in mounting Owar, giving her a sharp kick to the side to spring her into action.

"Owar, let's go."

And without another word or even a sideways glance, Chast disappeared into the smokebound streets of the ablaze Abnorun.

Not one person had anything to say about what just occured. But Marius found himself staring regretfully towards the mouth of the alley where Chast had disappeared into. He felt like he could have done something to stop her, to convince her to not storm off in rage.

But it was too late for that now. Marius had no choice but to go after the wayward Falcon Knight.

"Damn it, Chast…" he muttered, "You're going to get yourself killed…"

* * *

Owar's hooves clopped on the hard, stone roads of Abnorun as Chast accompanied her Falcon through the burning city. Her seething frustration caused the whites of her eyes were nearly as red as her verdantly scarlet irises and her knuckles to be whiter than the rest of her pale skin as she gripped the leather reins guiding her pegasus.

Chast was beyond furious. How dare they leave Nila, Christopher, and even the damn _queen _behind just because the situation was too dangerous for them? Why couldn't they brave the perils of their environment, while still saving innocents and punishing the wicked?

Wasn't that what they were all about? What was with this sudden change of pace?

But it was inconsequential to her. Chast would fix everything. She'd pull Nila kicking and screaming out of the dust of the palace if she had to. She would save them all.

She had to.

But as she rode ever further in the direction she believed the ruins of the palace were, the smoke became thicker and thicker. The air itself rose up to choke and strangle her. Yet, she persevered. She would stay the course. It was her duty.

She had to.

But eventually Owar had enough of the smoke billowing out of the destroyed windows and even the ground itself, since the beast stopped dead in her tracks to catch her breath.

And now her Falcon was betraying her? She wouldn't have any of that.

"Owar. Owar!" Chast scolded, giving the pegasus a swift kick to the side, "Keep… going… please…"

Now Chast's own voice was betraying her. She coughed hoarsely as she struggled to breathe in the choking smoke enveloping her.

She had to keep going. She had to.

Using her massive, yet slightly charred wings, Owar whipped up a windstorm, clearing the air for her and her master to catch their breath. Chast gasped, drinking in the clear air like water from a small spring of water in the middle of a desert.

"T-thank you…"

Chast patted her pegasus on the mane, only to have her gesture returned with a frustrated huff. She sighed, reclaiming Owar's reins. But just as she was about to whip her Falcon into action, something _moved_ in the corner of her eye. The Falcon Knight turned to face the direction the movement had come from, lance at the ready.

"Who's there?" she called, only to be returned with no answer. She tried again, this time firmer, only to be met with the same response.

Chast waited for a moment, but whatever had moved earlier either went into hiding or burned in the flames. But that wasn't about to stop her from investigating. If it was another Son of Naga, they would pay for what they did to Abnorun.

The Falcon Knight dismounted Owar, leading her along by the reins. The movement happened right out of the corner of her left eye, which could have led the source into any of the buildings lining the road. Most of them were set ablaze, but there remained one small, unassuming mercantile building nestled in between two much taller buildings that had yet to be consumed by encroaching fire. If someone was moving through the smoke, they would have taken refuge in there.

– – –

The door had proven to be surprisingly locked, but a few sharp blows to its center was more than enough to knock it off its hinges. Chast stepped through the exposed entrance and into the dust-filled, gloomy room in front of her.

The darkness did not stay for long, since her lance's ambient glow seemed to intensify slightly as she entered the darkened room. The effect ultimately proved less helpful than Chast had anticipated, but the soft light worked wonders in reassuring her.

But before the Falcon Knight even had a chance to look around, she heard a floorboard creak off to her left. She turned, seeing a shadow briefly move through the darkness before disappearing into the abyss around her. There was no question that whoever was in the room with Chast was the same person who she had seen earlier.

And now she could get revenge for all those dead in the name of the Sons.

Chast's steps were confident as she strode toward the far left corner of the room, the only feasible place for the shadow to have gone. With the dim light of her lance as a guide, she soon found herself face to face with the origin of the shadow.

But the person staring back at her was not the person she had expected in the slightest. Chast found herself face to face with a man of obvious Plegian descent, dressed in a red overcoat with a fancy white shirt underneath. A red cavalier hat sat upon his head, alongside the scorched remains of an accompanying feather, while a thin mustache rested under his nose.

But the most surprising detail about the man was that he was hardly as malicious as Chast had expected. In fact, he seemed absolutely terrified.

"L-look, ma'am Daughter," the thinly-mustachioed Plegian man quavered, "I don't know what it is ya want, but I can assure you that I don't got it. So why don'tcha _please_ step back through that door and we can both go our separate ways."

The man used his Cinquedea-styled blade to gesture towards the demolished door, his hand shaking all the while. It was evident that the man was scared, but Chast soon realized that it wasn't because he had a lance at his throat.

He was scared because she looked just like the enemy.

Chast quickly withdrew her lance, holding it at her side with the base placed on the ground.

"I'm not a Daughter," she corrected, "I'm a mercenary."

"Y-yer not?" The man seemed like a huge weight had risen off his shoulders. His fear quickly turned to that of oddly-charming complacency that took the Falcon Knight off guard.

"Cripes, that's a relief! Butcha should _really _do something 'bout that look ya got goin' on. Scared me half to death."

"I'll arm myself however I please," Chast responded dryly. To which, the Plegian man gave a soft chuckle.

"Eh, fair's fair. I wouldn't have it any other way myself, honestly."

_"Is he talking about me?"_ Chast thought to herself, _"No, that isn't right. No one would openly flirt while a city burned around them…"_

The Falcon Knight quickly pushed the thought from her mind, moving onto a more serious line of questioning.

"What exactly are you doing here? I thought all the citizens had escaped, or…"

Chast trailed off, but the red-garbed Plegian man seemed to have gotten the message regardless. He tossed his knife into the air, catching the hilt with the blade pointing down, tucking it back into his side sheath before he responded.

"Tryin' to make myself scarce," he said as if such a concept was obvious, "Whatsit look like?"

"To me it looks like you have a deathwish."

Chast's dry speech yielded another chuckle from the Plegian.

"No, no, no, nothin' of the sort! I'm just real invested in this town. Yeah. Gotta lot of money stowed away in here and I'm sure as hell not lettin' it go to waste!"

Money. A near-defenseless citizen of Abnorun practically threw himself into a wildfire all because of a couple of coins. Well, that made it a pretty cut-and-dry procedure to judge this man's character.

But while it seemed that the red-clad man was afflicted with an insurmountable greed, something seemed… oddly off mark. He also seemed shifty. His eyes darted from place to place in the room as he spoke, like he was sizing Chast up. But whether the man was looking at _her_ or a place to _stab her_ was beyond Chast's reasoning.

But maybe she could put that knife hand to good use.

"Will you help us fight?" Chast asked, hopeful for a more positive turn of character. But, just like the Ylissean hoped he wouldn't do, the Plegian man's face soured.

"Whaddo I look like, a swashbuckler?" the man retorted, "Notta chance! I'm more of a cut-and-run kinda guy. Get in, grab the goods, get out. No slicey-dicey unless absolutely necessary, y'know?"

No. No, Chast didn't know. But what the man said got a small ball rolling in her mind. _Grabbing goods and getting out_ were the character qualities of none other than low-life thieves.

Just what kind of scum was Chast talking to? Whoever he was, she intended to find out.

"Sounds like you're fond of pinching goods," she returned, the tone of her voice quickly shifting to a much firmer one, "I don't cooperate well with thieves."

The Ylissean took her lance in both hands, pointing it straight at the thief's stomach. His shaking hands instantly flew to his belt, unsheathing his dagger. He held the weapon defensively in both hands, his face contorted in fear.

"Y-yeah, okay, I admit it," the Plegian stammered, "I'm not exactly the most lawful of people. I steal things, I rip off merchants, and I love money more than anything else in the world besides my life. But please… put the lance down. I'm beggin' ya."

Whatever shreds of remorse the thief managed to use as a barrier ultimately proved useless against Chast. Seeing a criminal right in front of her just filled her with a justice-fueled rage that boiled inside her. Only when this outlaw's guts were spilled on the floor in front of her would she be satisfied.

"You just crossed paths with the _wrong_ person, demon…"

The Falcon Knight drew back her lance, preparing to let the four-pronged weapon skewer the thief in front of her. She exhaled for a moment, preparing for an easy strike. She then let her lance fly, shutting her eyes to prepare for the inevitable impact.

_Clang._

…That wasn't the right sound. And there was no doubt in Chast's mind that the thief's small, insignificant dagger would have had the ability to parry her strike. Then who…?

Opening her eyes, Chast discovered no one other than Marius standing in between the red-clad thief and Chast's wickedly sharp lance. His soothing sword had managed to fit in between the gaps separating each of the blessed lance's four points right before it connected with the thief's stomach. And judging from his expression, the thief was just as surprised that Marius was defending his life as Chast was.

But surprise soon turned to anger. Chast struggled against Marius' blade, putting all her power behind her lance, desperate to see it tear through the Plegian thief's skin. But Marius proved stronger, as he was able to push Chast back far enough to stand in between the thief and herself.

"First, you're a coward," the Falcon Knight said, struggling to force the Dread Fighter out of her way, "and now you're defending the life of a criminal? What the _hell_ has gotten into you?!"

"I should be asking the same question!" he spat, disarming the Ylissean with one quick twist of his blade, "Do you even realize what you're doing?"

Chast stood speechless as her lance was wrought from her hands and sent to the floor. It clattered against the wooden ground before sliding far out of her reach and under an end table placed at the base of a bookshelf.

And to top it off, she was now being held at swordpoint by one of the few people she thought she could trust.

"Don't you see that this man is _terrified_?" the Feroxian asserted, pointing a finger at the thief quivering against the wall behind him, "He has done nothing to fight back against you! And yet you took it upon yourself to judge that this man's life deserved to end! What right do you have?"

Why couldn't he see it? He was protecting the life of someone who benefited from the misfortune of others! The very same type of person that he swore would see justice!

Why was everyone turning against her?

"I have every right!" Chast retorted, desperation cracking her voice, "Justice is our _job_, Marius! It's why we live! He is a thief and he deserves to answer for it!"

"That might be so, but you're forgetting who the real enemy is right now. The ones who deserve to answer for their crimes are the ones committing genocide right outside this door!"

Marius then averted his gaze, bracing himself for what he was about to say. Chast had seen this before, just before he used Owar to convince her to turn tail and run from Abnorun with Valkus. Whatever he had to say, it couldn't be anything good.

"This? This is not justice! Not anywhere close! This is murder!"

Murder.

The word reserved for killers. The lowest of society. The ones Chast swore to see dead by the masses.

Not her. That word would never be used to describe her.

"Y-you…" she trailed off, the shock of being described as a murderer still messing with her head. It took Chast a moment to find her voice, but as soon as she did, rage boiled once again from inside her.

"You take that back this instant!"

The Ylissean desperately wanted to make Marius understand how she truly felt, but she couldn't find the strength. No matter how frustrated Chast was with him, some part of her still considered him a friend. No matter how badly she wanted to make him regret ever opening his mouth, some part of her didn't want to see him hurt.

It was a part of herself that Chast hated.

But Marius stood resolute despite Chast's rage and tears.

"I standing by my words, Chast," he said firmly, yet with a hint of gentleness. The Dread Fighter then lowered his sword, extending a hand to the rage-filled Falcon Knight.

"Now why don't you leave this man be and we'll go fight the real enemy together. As a team."

Chast found herself not looking at the hand outstretched to her, but rather at the wall behind Marius. She was baffled to admit it, but somehow the thief they had been arguing over had slipped away during their disagreement. Not a trace of the shifty man remained.

But Chast wasn't about to waste time pointing that out to Marius. She slapped the Feroxian's hand away, turning from her former friend and crossing her arms.

Yet somehow, the weakness in her managed to win yet again. Part of her found herself agreeing with Marius' words. And she hated it.

"…Fine," she muttered, relieved to hear that the strength of her willpower was still guiding her voice, "But don't assume that we're 'best of friends' after what the lot of you pulled today."

– – –

The smoke veiling Abnorun seemed to only get thicker as Chast rode alongside Marius to the place he had said the others were waiting. Fortunately, the flapping of Owar's wings managed to make the air around the two relatively breathable.

Every fiber of the Falcon Knight's being knew that she should be trying to search for Nila and the others, but the one weak aspect of her personality had managed to lull her into agreeing with Marius. For now, her goal was to find and rescue the Abnorun protector entity, slaying anyone who would stand in her way. Finding their new tactician would have to wait until she had a chance to get away from the others.

It wasn't long after they had left to rejoin the others that Chast heard the sounds of combat. The fire she was all-too familiar with welled up in the pit of her stomach. She was ready for whatever the Sons tried to throw at her.

Chast flew ahead of Marius, through a cloud of thick smoke billowing from the broken windows of two merchant buildings. As she passed the barrier, the Falcon Knight was greeted with a densely-packed, all-out brawl.

The sea-green cloaks of the Sons and Daughters fighting were unmistakable, as were the memorable sets of equipment worn by her allies. In the center of the carnage she spotted Matt, whose steel axe was struggling to fend off two sword-wielding Sons since his wyvern was grounded. Not far away from the wyvern rider was Valkus, the sheen of her armor nearly disguising her amongst the flames. And Chast was sure that the others were in the fray as well, but it was too densely-packed to determine much of anything.

Observations would have to wait. There were criminals to apprehend.

Chast flew into the fray and towards one of the two sword-wielding Sons pinning Matt down. She caught the one straying the furthest to the side off guard, running the cultist through with her lance as Owar flew by. The Son seized up as the lance tore through his flesh, but the life faded away from his body even before he hit the ground. Matt shot Chast a look of gratitude before bowling into the other Son.

The Falcon Knight glanced around, eventually selecting another target giving the gray-armored newcomer—Bell, Chast recalled his name being—a large amount of trouble. In no time at all, Bell and Chast had paired up to deal with the cultist.

The Daughter was no slouch, managing to dodge Bell's double-handed assault and Chast's lance even without the aid of a physical weapon. The cultist eventually managed to create enough space between the two to open her spellbook and channel a Fire spell at Bell.

The fireball tore through the air, but the axeman managed to deflect the majority of the blow with his axes. The spell did still manage to burn him slightly, ultimately removing Bell from the battle momentarily, giving the mage Daughter a little more to breathe.

The cultist wasted no time in capitalizing on her enemies' slip-up. After dodging Chast's lance with ease, she managed to find enough time channel an Elwind spell. The green blades of wind sliced the air, connecting with Chast square in the chest. The force of the blow was more than enough to force her off of Owar's saddle and to the ground below.

Even as she crashed arm-first into the ground below, Chast was thankful that the Daughter had only managed to hit her. If Owar had absorbed the blow, there was no doubt she would have been crushed by the pegasus' weight, either crippling her or killing her.

It wasn't long after the Falcon Knight had taken her tumble that she had managed to pull herself to her feet, lance held in both hands. But she was immediately forced to dodge to the side as another Fire spell whizzed past her head.

But the pressure the Daughter was putting on Chast was ultimately the cultist's downfall. In her obsession of finishing off the vulnerable Falcon Knight, she failed to account that Bell would have recovered from the Fire spell he had deflected. And she wouldn't have a chance to think about it, either, as one of the axeman's two hand axes found its way directly into her skull.

The cultist fell to the road below, body limp and mind long-gone. Bell ran to her body, retrieving his weapon from the Daughter's skull. He then turned to Chast, who had since remounted Owar, and nodded before dashing into the fray behind the two.

It wasn't long after that Chast found herself searching for a new target. The others—including Marius, who had managed to catch up and was dealing with another mage Son with his own spellbook—seemed to be handling their respective adversaries relatively well.

Were there any other Sons hanging on the outskirts of battle? Chast scanned the edges of the fray as she downed the last few drops of a vulnerary she had kept in Owar's saddlebag, which quickly took effect on her damaged arm and chest. Fortunately, the wounds were minor enough that the vulnerary managed to cure them in their entireties.

But just as Chast was returning the bottle to her pegasus' saddlebag, she saw a glint of light duck behind a corner of a side street just on the edge of the field of combat. It looked less like the glow of the numerous fires consuming the buildings around her than how Valkus' armor glinted when the light of flames shone off of it.

It had to be an armored human. There was no doubt about that. And Chast wasn't about to let any of the Sons get away and escape justice.

Chast and Owar flew forward to the source of the glinting of light that the Falcon Knight had seen. But when the two arrived, there was nothing present that would cause such a thing to happen. All she could see were the flames consuming the street around her, and an oddly-familiar side street that Chast had seen so many of across Abnorun.

But as she gazed around, a sense of dèjá vu washed over her. She had been in this place before. The dark, gaping mouth of the side street, the blacksmith's sign that had since been set alight, the damaged wrought-iron door, and the layout of the street could have only belonged to one place in all of Abnorun.

This was the place Chast had visited just before she and Valkus had gone to the blacksmith earlier in the day. And to think how much of it had changed in only a single afternoon was downright baffling.

But it was then that Chast remembered the conversation she had listened to in the other alleyway before she had stormed off on her own.

"_Not far from here, actually,"_ Matt had said earlier, _"I managed to catch a gold-armored knight with a teal cape go through a hidden doorway in some alleyway just as the sun came up…"_

This was it. The same place the familiar, gold-clad man had disappeared to earlier in the morning. And Chast was determined to figure out who he was and what he was up to.

She guided Owar into the alley, scanning the walls as the pegasus slowly plodded through the darkened side street. Even after looking around thoroughly, she was met only with the same scene that she had seen earlier in the day: high, smooth stone walls, a couple piles of crates and barrels, a boarded up segment of wall…

Wait. The wall! Chast immediately dismounted from Owar, approaching the oddly-placed wooden boards carefully. She ran her gloved hand across its surface, trying to determine how exactly the golden-armored man could have gotten through it so quickly while leaving no trace of himself. It seemed impossible, but there had to be a way!

Chast tugged at the boards, and she immediately learned how the bulky, armored man had managed to be so elusive earlier in the day. The wooden boards were only a facade attached to a heavy, upward-swinging steel door. The Falcon Knight barely had to exert herself to lift the door open.

But before she entered the belly of the beast, she gently shut the steel door and turned to Owar, who was waiting patiently behind her.

"Owar," she called, "I need you to fly up above the smoke and stay hidden. Don't come back down until I call for you again."

The pegasus and her rider seemed to reach a mutual understanding. The beast actually seemed to move her head akin to nodding before quickly taking to the air, cutting through the smoke above her.

Chast breathed deeply, lifting the facade-door up once again. This was it. Whoever was responsible for all this madness had to be behind this door. And she would make sure whoever it was, they would have hell to pay.

– – –

The room behind the door was surprisingly well-lit for how vast it was. Lanterns lined the walls, and some were even placed atop dusty stacks of crates that had been piled in straight lines across the floor. Judging from the sheer volume of the crates, Chast had found herself in a warehouse of some kind.

The Falcon Knight raised her lance defensively, taking cautious steps as she traversed the interior of the building. The high ceiling showed little sign of succumbing to flame, which would give Chast at least a little time to confront the mysterious golden-armored man.

Chast rounded a corner of boxes, lance pointed in front of her in case of ambush. No one. She then ducked behind the boxes on the edge of the pile, gazing out across the expansive floor. Still no one. Whoever this person was, he was quite adept at staying hidden.

Figuring that the path was safe, the Falcon Knight quickly crossed the gap between two piles of crates, her eyes trained forward as she moved. But just before she cleared the gap, something caught her eye. Once she was safe behind the other pile, she poked her head out in search of what she had seen earlier.

Chast wasn't quite sure, but she saw what looked like a pair of chains crudely attached to the segment of wall just beyond the piles of boxes, and what looked to be hands clasped to their very bottoms.

That had to be the protector manakete. There was no mistaking it.

Quickly but carefully, Chast moved from crate pile to crate pile, making sure she was out of sight as she approached the links of chain. Once she reached the final set of boxes just before the clear segment of floor, she ducked behind the piles of crates to prepare herself. She gripped her lance tightly in case the golden-armored man was around, breathed in deeply, and jumped from behind the boxes.

What she saw on the other side of the crates was not the mysterious, armored man. Far from it. Attached to the chains was a green-haired, pointy-eared young boy, who didn't look a day over fifteen. His otherwise fair skin was bruised and bloody, and the remnants of his clothing were torn where blades must have cut through them. His red, midriff-bearing vest was nearly torn in two, while his black waist-cape belt and white cloth pants were no more than tatters. If he had boots before, they were nowhere to be seen.

But despite the damage he had taken, he was definitely alive. His breaths were ragged and labored, and his bloodshot green eyes were wide open with a disturbing mixture of fear and pain. But the boy being alive was the most important thing.

Chast immediately rushed to the chained boy, driving her lance through the segments of chain. One by one they snapped, dropping the child to the ground. Chast managed to catch him before he crashed to the floor, and propped his back up against the wall behind him.

"It's alright," Chast assured him, "I've got you now. You're safe. I'm going to get you out of here."

But the boy experienced no feelings of elation or joy. In fact, his eyes remained trained in the same direction they were when he was hanging from the wall.

His ragged breaths calmed down briefly, and he swallowed deeply. Afterwards, two words—barely a whisper—escaped his mouth.

"Behind… you…"

The Ylissean Falcon Knight immediately retrieved her lance from where it had fallen, turning to face whatever threat may have found the chance to sneak up on her. While the boy had been correct about someone being behind her, the person in question was quite far away, taking his time as he sauntered over to the two.

The gilded armor and the teal cape immediately gave away his identity. The mysterious, golden-armored man that both Chast and Matt had seen earlier in the day was right in front of her. As he slowly walked from the other side of the room, the Ylissean found herself studying the man. The brown, messy hair atop his head seemed… familiar. Chast couldn't place it, but she had definitely seen him before. Somewhere other than Abnorun.

The knight eventually stopped a few meters away from Chast, placing the base of his four-pronged golden lance into the ground.

"Well, well," he spoke with an eerily familiar voice, "I see you've _saved_ the Abnorun manakete. Congratulations."

"You… who are you?" Chast asked, a warning tone in her voice. But the knight simply brushed off her attempt at aggression, laughing all the while.

"You mean you don't remember me? A pity, really. I was hoping for something of an exciting reunion today. Alas, I suppose such an event will forever remain in my mind, never to grace reality."

That voice… that manner of speaking… There was no mistaking it.

"…Morris?"

"Ah, there it is!" As Morris spoke, he somehow managed to keep a balance between seriousness and sarcasm, a way of speaking Chast had never seen outside of his voice. "The noble Chastity never forgets a face, am I wrong?"

"Don't call me that. You know better than anyone that I hate that name."

Her words produced another laugh from the heavily-built man.

"Ah, yes! That's right," he mocked, "Always Chast, never Chastity. Oh, how the years addle the mind."

"Save your breath!" the Falcon Knight shouted, "I want to know what exactly you're doing here. Now!"

"You're delusional if you think you have any power over me. But isn't what I'm doing here obvious?"

Morris took several steps over towards Chast, stroking her chin as he passed by. She slapped his hand away before shoving him away from the bloodied young boy, a red-eyed scowl etched into her face.

"I'm burning a city," Morris stated nonchalantly, "I'm capturing a manakete, I'm _torturing_ a manakete, and I'm following my lord's will to assassinate the queen of this pathetic country. Any questions?"

"_You're_ responsible for all of this?" the Falcon Knight balked, "But… why?"

"Because Plegians deserve to die. What have they done to us over the years? They've risen the Fell Dragon, murdered our exalt, and raided our homes. That is more than enough reason to me to see them exterminated."

"That was hundreds of years ago! Plegia has done nothing to Ylisse for years!"

"But that doesn't mean it never happened! I'm not one to forgive and forget. What Plegia didn't pay for when Grima fell, they will pay now. By the Sons of Naga's hand!"

But Morris didn't bother trying to strike Chast. He simply twirled his four-pronged lance around his fingers, eventually dragging it across the floor as he walked away from the Falcon Knight.

"This town and this building are both doomed to collapse," he said, walking away as slowly as he had approached earlier, "And I'm not going to stay around here to figure out when. Until we meet again, dear Chastity."

Chast had heard enough. Lance in hand, the Falcon Knight charged Morris, preparing to run him through and finally wipe his cocky smirk off his face. But the knight was prepared for this, quickly turning around to meet Chast's strike with a parry.

"Nice try," he jeered, "But I don't plan on dying today."

Without another word, Morris quickly stabbed forward with his lance, Chast barely dodging the blow. The Falcon Knight followed up with a strike of her own, but her lance was easily swatted to the side by the more-skilled Morris. It barely seemed as if he was trying, with how casually he was swinging his weapon around.

But the sound of cracking wood above the two temporarily halted their engagement. A broken board quickly crashed to the ground, flames smoldering across its well-eaten center. Looking up, Chast was horrified to discover that fire had finally enveloped the warehouse roof. It wouldn't be long before the whole thing would be consumed by flame.

"Enough foolishness," Morris uttered, slamming the tip of his lance into the floor below, "I'm ending this."

The gilded knight came at Chast once again, this time much faster than his lazy game of cat-and-mouse earlier. The Falcon Knight barely had enough time to think as she struggled to keep the tip of Morris' deadly lance at bay.

But the knight knew that he had the upper hand. He abruptly halted his blinding assault, surprising Chast with a kick square to the chest. The force of the impact sent her into a pile of flimsy crates, most of which shattered into pieces as she landed. Morris then thrusted his lance downward, aiming for the exposed part of Chast's breastplate that had been shattered open in her engagement earlier in the day. But Chast managed to catch Morris' lance between its gilded prongs with the shaft of her own lance, allowing her to kick the knight's hand, wresting it from his grasp.

Before Chast even had a chance to capitalize on her opponent's newfound weakness, he had drawn an intricate, white-metaled sword from a scabbard that she hadn't even known was there. The white-haired knight's thrust was cut off by the blade of Morris' newly-equipped sword, managing to keep Chast at bay even though he held the weapon disadvantage.

With the smaller weapon in his possession, Morris' strikes became faster than with his lance. But since his weapon had a size disadvantage, parrying the blade was relatively easier thanks to the additional time she had to react to each slice.

As their confrontation stormed on, the roof above the two was nearly a quarter of the way to being consumed in its entirety. Small embers fell from above, singing the wooden surfaces of the crates scattered around the expansive room. Fortunately, none of the boxes managed to be set entirely ablaze.

It wasn't long until Chast found herself backed into a corner, both physically and metaphorically. Morris' swift strikes and blows managed to push her back across the whole of the room and into the corner adjacent to the one that the manakete was being chained to. No longer would it matter that Chast held a range advantage. In a corner, there was nowhere to run.

Before Morris could take advantage of his position, the upwardly-opening door only a few meters away from her quickly flew open. The sudden movement had startled him enough to allow Chast to deliver a swift kick to his gut, pushing him back far enough for her to move out of the disadvantageous position and towards the entrance.

She had expected Matt to have been the one to thrust open the door, and swiftly deal with the knight at hand. Even Marius would have been better than the well-dressed man who stepped through the warehouse entrance.

Bow in hand, dagger and arrow quiver at his side, large sack of _something_ affixed to his back, and fresh feather in his cavalier hat was none other than the thief she had tried to kill minutes earlier.

"Girlie," he shouted, "duck!"

Despite all her hatred and animosity towards the thief, Chast was hardly in a place to argue. She complied, and the _twang _of his bow was quickly followed by a scream of pain from Morris.

The thief swiftly took to Chast's side, bow at the ready.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she roared, to the surprise of the red-clad thief.

"Savin' yer skin, doll! Whatsit look like?"

He fired another arrow, which collided into the stone wall just behind Morris, who had pulled the arrow from his shoulder and was fast approaching.

"Look alive, he's comin' our way!"

Chast was forced to put aside her anger, directing as much of it as she could in taking down the threat in front of her. Morris approached with his sword, trying the same strategy against Chast that he had used before. But with the thief aiding her from atop a pile of boxes, it was Chast that now had the upper hand.

His struck once, aiming for the Falcon Knight's throat, but was blocked by the stalwart Falcon Knight before he could do any damage. He lifted his hand to try again, but was forced to dodge as the red thief fired another volley of arrows in his direction. None managed to strike him, but his dodging had backed him into the very same corner that Chast found herself in moments ago.

Morris raised his sword to block any strike Chast decided to throw out, but the thief managed to shoot the knight directly in the hand. He cried out in pain, dropping the white-bladed sword as blood started to trickle from his exposed hand.

This was her chance.

"This ends now!" Chast cried out, rearing her lance back. She then struck with all her might forward, tearing through Morris' mighty armor and running him through. The Falcon Knight withdrew her lance, which was now dripping with the blood of her former friend.

As soon as Chast removed the lance from Morris' gut, he gasped in both shock and pain. Not a moment later, he seized up, drawing a final shaky breath before falling limp.

Against all odds, Chast had come out on top. And she would make sure Morris would never rise again.

She twirled the lance around her fingers, facing the four-pronged blade directly at Morris' heart. But before she had a chance to strike, a loud cracking sound from above her directed her attention skyward.

As the battle raged on, the whole of the ceiling managed to become consumed by flame. A scaffold from above her had become loose from the rest of the roof, and was falling right towards her. A quick redirection of her lance was enough to swat the board from above her and into the wall to her right. The flaming wooden segment landed atop Morris' still body, the flames taking their time to envelop his skin. Perhaps his armor was fireproof?

The thief's voice quickly grounded her thoughts.

"Erm, girlie, I'd love ta stay and help ya make sure this bastard stays dead, but _we'll_ be dead if we hang around here any longer. Let's get movin', yeah?"

"We can't leave just yet," Chast responded firmly, "There's a manakete in here."

"Manakete? Ya mean Jae?" The tone in the thief's voice revealed that he was at least familiar with the protector entity. Apparently, Dom wasn't the only one who recognized the name.

But the thief's face soon shifted from surprise to determination.

"Lead the way. I'm not steppin' outta here until Jae's safe."

Chast nodded, committing herself to at least a temporary alliance with the Plegian man. The two dashed through the piles of crates—most of which had since caught fire—towards the young manakete passed out on the floor in front of them. Fortunately, no embers managed to fall on him while Chast and Morris had battled.

The Ylissean took one look at the thief's wiry frame, and opted to carry Jae herself. She sheathed her lance on her back and scooped the young boy up in her hands. As soon as she did, however, Jae's eyes fluttered open.

"My… dragonstone…" he whispered, his voice most likely damaged from smoke inhalation, "In… the chest…"

Jae's eyes were affixed to a small, metal chest that rested not far away from where he was chained up earlier. Chast laid Jae on the ground again, quickly drawing her lance. She struck the box's lock over and over, but the sturdy metal device managed to hold fast.

"I… can't…" she coughed, trying to force the acrid smoke from her lungs, "It won't budge…"

She then turned to the red-clad thief, who was standing aside her with a look of disappointment upon his face.

"Lady," he chastised, "Yer doin' it wrong. Step aside and letta pro take over."

Chast offered little resistance, resheathing her lance and picking the now-unconscious Jae up in her arms. The thief kneeled down in front of the dented box, quickly getting to work. He retrieved a tension wrench and gaudy, gilded lockpick from his pockets, placing both devices in the sturdy steel lock. The Plegian dug into the box, only having to put a small amount of pressure on the lock before it snapped open.

The thief pulled the lock out, tossing it to the side as he threw the lid of the tiny, metal chest up to reveal a pulsating, green shard of stone and an intricate, gold-metaled headpiece. The red-clad thief gently took the items in his hands before placing them in the sack on his back.

The Plegian man turned to Chast, giving the Falcon Knight a nod.

"Let's get outta here before the whole thing comes crashin' down on us, 'kay?"

Chast returned with a nod of her own, barely noting the nonchalance in his voice. She tightly gripped the unconscious manakete in her arms, racing to the upwardly-opening door on the far end of the room. Pieces of wood rained down on the two like hail, each landing outside their escape path.

The Plegian thief was the first to reach the door, quickly throwing it open. He held the steel entrance open, allowing Chast and Jae to pass through the gate unharmed.

The Ylissean had hoped that the alleyway outside the warehouse would have been a refuge from the flames that had consumed the inside of the building, but she was horrified to see that the once-dark alleyway had caught fire while she had been gone. The walls smoldered, stone fragments clattering against the ground.

"Owar!" she called into the veil of smoke above, "I need your help!"

The pegasus was quick to respond, cutting through the thicker layer of smoke above the two. Owar landed in a flurry of dust and ash, shaking the singed-tips of her wings before rearing up on her hind legs.

Chast handed Jae off to the red-dressed thief before throwing her arms around the pegasus' neck.

"Oh, thank the gods you came back…" she said, speaking into Owar's white fur, "I thought something might've happened to you…"

Owar nuzzled her master's shoulder, letting out a content sigh. After a moment, Chast broke the embrace, gazing lovingly at her Falcon.

"We did it. We saved the manakete and killed the man responsible for everything that's happened here. We can go home now."

"Erm, lady? I think we got trouble."

Chast turned to the mouth of the shallow alleyway, and gasped as she found herself face to face with six shadowy figures, each brandishing weapons of different sizes. Chast quickly drew her own lance, ready to defend Owar from a final wave of Sons of Naga.

But to her relief, it was not a Son who stepped from the shadows. Rather, she was met with the familiar, friendly face of Matt, who was cautiously stepping through the thick layer of smoke with axe at the ready. Upon seeing the Falcon Knight, however, he immediately lowered his axe and his stiff gaze softened.

"Chast!" he shouted with joy, "You're alive!"

The tall, musclebound rider dropped his axe and embraced the thinner Falcon Knight in a tight hug. She was at first elated to see her friend again, but the terrible things he and Marius had said earlier quickly came rushing back. She pushed him away, donning a somewhat-sincere smile.

"Yeah, I'm alive," she murmured, "But I'm not the only one. I found the manakete."

Chast dropped her lance and plucked the unconscious Jae from the red-dressed thief's arms. Matt took a look at the wounded boy, wincing as he saw how grave the damage he had taken was. The wyvern rider then reclaimed his axe from the ground, sheathing it across his back before he took Jae in his own arms.

"We need to have him healed, and fast. Take Owar and fly to the northern exit. There are no siege weapons there, so it's the safest place we can go. The rest of us will meet you there."

And without another word, Matt stepped back into the smoke, disappearing alongside the other five members of the group.

Chast picked her lance up from the ground, returning it to its place on the side of Owar's saddle. She wasted no time in mounting her Falcon and taking the reins in her hands. But before she gave Owar the signal to fly, she saw the red-clad thief, who was still standing silently near the burning wall of the warehouse the two fought in together. In the pouch on his back, Chast saw the pulsating green glow of Jae's dragonstone.

"I won't force ya to take me if ya don't wanna," he said, retrieving the glowing shard of rock and the headpiece from his pouch and tossing them to Chast, who deftly caught the two items in both of her hands, "But I'd appreciate the offa. Really."

The Ylissean Falcon Knight looked the thief up and down. She was still disgusted with him, being exactly the kind of person that Chast had no qualms with killing. But the man had risked his life to save her from the warehouse, not even knowing her name. And it was evident that Chast wouldn't have walked away from her encounter with Morris if he hadn't shown up.

Chast sighed heavily. She would have to swallow her pride and her virtues for now.

"…Get on."

* * *

**Roster**

**No.001 Nila**

A resident of Plegia and descendent of one of the famous time travelers of Ylissean past, Morgan. Although weakly, he carries the same blood of Grima used to revive the fell dragon generations ago. He was a tactician for the Plegian Mercenaries in the past, who eventually dissolved under his leadership.

The most likely fall asleep while reading.

Born on December 20th, age 24.

Class: Tactician (**Sword**|**Anima**, **Dark** from Shadowgift)

**No.002 Matthew**

The leader of a group of fighters known as the Justice Brigade, who prefers the name Matt. He brought the group together after he and Hunter fled a devastated city in Western Ferox, one of the first Western settlements destroyed by the marauding nation. His confident personality is what the Justice Brigade's foundation stands upon, yet he harbors doubts of his own sometimes.

The one who slouches the most.

Born on January 2nd, age 21.

Class: Wyvern Lord (**Axe**|Lance)

**No.003 Hunter**

A Feroxian duelist with a deadly mastery of swordplay. He has lived in not one, but two villages that have been razed by magic-wielding bandits or conquesting Easterners. The loss of his sister invoked a keen sense of justice within him and a fear of magic and fire.

The least fond of parlor tricks.

Born on January 25th, age 22.

Class: Swordmaster (**Sword**)

**No.004 Chastity**

An Ylissean Falcon Knight—who prefers to go by Chast—with pale white skin and red eyes. Her albinism runs in the family, being shared with her father. She had high hopes of joining the Ylissean cavalry, yet was advised to pursue a separate line of work by her father. She instead took up work as a mercenary, and eventually met Matt after he saved her life.

The one with the scariest glare.

Born on October 29th, age 17.

Class: Falcon Knight (**Lance**|**Staff**)

**No.005 Marius**

A peculiar fighter hailing from Stormguard. Initially striving to be a scholar, Marius studied magic diligently throughout his childhood. However, he shifted priorities when bands of rogue dark mages attacked the settlement. With his interesting combination of swords, Anima, and throwing axes, he joined the enthusiastic Justice Brigade to put his skills to the test.

The one with the worst sense of humor.

Born on April 1st, age 20.

Class: Dread Fighter (**Sword**|**Axe**|**Anima**)

**No.006 Valkus**

A Valmese quartermaster who tolerates nonsense of no kind. After a false claim of fraudulence, Valkus chartered a ship to the Ylissean continent. She joined the Justice Brigade after falling to them in a battle to mete out justice for herself and others. How this beauty's personality meshes with the jovial brigade is a mystery.

The most likely to enjoy taking inventory.

Born on March 25th, age 28.

Class: General (**Lance**|Axe)

**No.007 ?**

…

**No.008 Lester**

A seasoned veteran and guardian of Ylissean royalty. Lester began his training for knighthood at the young age of seven. He failed to protect the lord he was sworn to from a powerful East Feroxian warlord. He formed the Ylissean Vanguard in an attempt right the mistakes that he brought upon the halidom.

The longest bather.

Born on May 15th, age 20.

Class: Paladin (**Sword**|**Lance**)

**No.009 Desmond**

One of the rare taguel who bounced back from the brink of extinction. Desmond is one of the few taguel who have refused to their cultural roots of warren life. He trained under a man who fought against the Gray Claw, a taguel purist society that threatened his home. He refuses to use his beaststone.

The one with the biggest rock collection.

Born on August 8th, age 19.

Class: Taguel Fighter (**Axe**|Beaststone)

**No.010 Samuel**

An Ylissean priest of minor nobility. His rigorous education led him to priesthood, where he trained in the Holy Church of Naga to heal his allies. After being denied entry to the Ylissean military, he was recruited by Lester to heal for the Ylissean Vanguard.

The best at insulting others.

Born on July 14th, age 21.

Class: Scholar (**Staff**|**Anima**)

**No.011 Brooks**

A mage of Ylissean background that has traveled the world across. With his traveling mage caravan, he saw the shores of Valm, the peaks of both Feroxes, the sands of Plegia, and the rolling hills of Ylisse. Longing to be greater than an entertainer, he left his caravan to create his own adventures.

The one with dirt on absolutely everyone.

Born on March 10th, age 25.

Class: Mage (**Anima**)

**No.012 Esthara**

An Ylissean tactician in training. She wields the legendary weapon Mercurius, one of the three regalia of old, given to her as a gift by her professor. Studying under the legendary tactician and professor Kairos, she aims to one day match the intellectual might of the most famous tacticians in history.

The lightest sleeper.

Born on November 19, age 19.

Class: Strategist (**Sword**)

**No.013 Christopher**

A masked prodigy dark mage who shortens his name to Chris. His skill comes from necessity, having lived his most of his life around bandits and thieves. He trained under a Plegian outlaw sorcerer, partaking in both assassinations and thefts. After being conned into murdering his parents, he took up his father's mask and fled to Abnorun, a Plegian border town. He shares a proficiency in shadow with Nila.

The giddiest laugher.

Born on October 4th, age 16.

Class: Dark Mage (**Dark**|**Anima**, **Dark** enhanced from Shadowgift)

**No.014 Grace**

A nimble and powerful Ylissean myrmidon. Her father and older sister served as fighters for the Plegian Mercenaries years ago, a fateful mission taking her father's life and causing her sister to vanish. At the age of only fifteen, she picked up the pieces of her shattered life and became a wanderer with her mother. Finding herself a mercenary after her mother's recent death, she will invoke any means necessary to stay on her feet.

The most sentimental.

Born on September 19, age 19.

Class: Myrmidon (**Sword**)

**No.015 Iris**

The royal hierophant of the Plegian Court. She and the Autumn Queen Meliora have been great friends for many years, alongside the parents of both Nila and Grace. Désirée, Nila's mother, worked alongside Iris to put Meliora in power twenty years ago. The six friends have shared many an adventure, but Iris is definitely hiding something…

The one with her eyes on the horizon.

Born on February 15, age 43.

Class: Hierophant (**Dark**|**Anima**|**Staff**|**Rapier**)

**No.016 Bell**

A Valmese fighter whose travels have landed him in Abnorun. Previously an orphan, he found himself running with the worst types of crowds. He traveled to Ylisse to escape his past, but much of his experiences are unknown. Even his real name is shrouded in mystery.

The most fiercely protective.

Born on September 30th, age 28.

Class: Fighter (**Axe**)

***New* No.017 Red-Clad Thief**

Inadequate information for detailed analysis.

Class: Thief (**Dagger**|**Bow**)

***New* No.018 Jae**

A half-manakete hailing from Plegia, as well as being the protector entity of Abnorun. Compared to most manaketes making their way in the world, Jae is remarkably young. His brother and two sisters often worry about him, but this soft-spoken half-manakete is more than capable of taking care of himself.

The most absentminded.

Born on June 9th, age 163

Class: Manakete (**Dragonstone**)

* * *

**Guests**

**Meliora**

The noble and pragmatic Autumn Queen of Plegia. Most of her past is shrouded in mystery, even from her closest remaining friend, Iris. She feels uncomfortable in violent situations, but always strives for her people to see a brighter tomorrow.

The most chilling presence.

Born on September 7th, age 41.

Class: Queen (**Sword**)

**Dom**

Otherwise known as Dominic, this man is the go-to blacksmith of Abnorun. Some people say they've seen him in cities all over the world, but he claims that he was born and raised in Abnorun. Has a fondness for beautiful women paralleled by few.

The most strangely familiar.

Born on May 5th, age 28.

Class: Blacksmith (**Axe, Hammer only**)


	10. 7: Reach of the Divine Dragon, Part III

A quaking shockwave rolled through the air, signifying the end of the warehouse building that Chast and the thief had fought in only moments ago. The Falcon Knight turned her head, eyes widening in shock as the building collapsed underneath its own weight. She knew that the building was due for collapse at any moment from the flames, but watching such a sturdy structure simply crumble was terrifying, to say the least.

As Chast gazed out upon the city's skyline, she was quick to notice that the warehouse wasn't the first building to have gone down. Scattered across the city were clouds of dust, barely visible underneath the layer of thick, gray smoke. Each one served as a marker for a fallen building, and there were far too many to count. But there was something missing, right in the city's heart, that made Chast's heart fall.

The palace, once a study, valiant beacon for Abnorun, had completely disappeared. Not a trace of it existed, nor a cloud of dust to at least take its place. And to think that both Nila and Christopher were in there when it collapsed…

She had failed. All that screaming and yelling to at least give the two Plegian men a chance at life had gone to waste. If only Marius and the others had understood the value of the lives on the line, might they be riding with her atop Owar.

But instead, all Chast had to show for her sacrifices was a red-garbed thief. A no good, bottom feeding thief. And she didn't even know his name.

But at the same time, it was that thief that came to her rescue when Morris proved to be too much of a challenge for her. But why? He was a thief. Thieves brought themselves nothing but sorrow and misfortune

The thief's deviation from the norm was seriously messing with her head.

"You there," she said, getting the thief in question's attention, "I… I have to thank you for helping me rescue Jae back in that warehouse. It was… _honorable _of you."

Honorable. Saying that word in the context that she had was alien. In all her life, Chast would have never guessed that she would be praising a thief for their actions. It was downright disorienting.

But the red-clad thief barely reacted to Chast's assertion of gratitude.

"Eh, notta problem," he shrugged, "I woulda done the same for anyone."

"You? _Save_ people? Considering your societal position, I never thought you'd save anyone."

The thief responded with an amused expression upon his face.

"Girlie, you gotta lot to learn 'bout us poor folk. We gotta learn to stick together, no matta what anyone does to us. 'Cause no one likes us, even if we keep our noses clean."

"It's not that you're poor," the Falcon Knight assured, "It's because you steal. Do you ever think about the people you've stolen things from?"

The thief was quiet for a moment, and he turned his head away from Chast. The Ylissean couldn't get a good read of his expression, but the thief's voice would soon reveal how exactly he was feeling.

"Not 'til today," he muttered, his voice barely above that of a whisper, "Usually all I think is that I'll never see them again, and that's enough to drown away the voices tellin' me no. But…"

The thief trailed off as he returned his gaze to Chast. But when he did, she noticed that something was different about the man's expression. Instead of that playful, annoyingly flirtatious look upon his face, all she could see was genuine remorse and sadness. Tears were slowly streaming down his left cheek, visible only from the red of his eyes and the orange glow of the fires down below.

The thief was… crying?

"Then I met you, godsdammit. I saw how mad you was at me, and that angry face of yers just wouldn't get out of my head… 'What have I done?' is all I thought afta that!"

Wait… This thief _knew_ her? Chast had gone her entire life living the life of a justicar, following and delivering the law to all those that would oppose her. So who was this man?

Then it hit her. Something that Chris had told her earlier that day resurfaced to the top of her mind.

"_Few outside his circle of companions have seen him,"_ the Plegian dark mage had mentioned, _"but those who have know him as…"_

"Ulysses," Chast said, finishing the departed Chris' thought, "You're… Ulysses."

"Yeah," Ulysses responded with a quavering voice, "Yeah, I am. And I know that you know what I took from ya. But before ya throw me off yer beautiful pegasus, let me say my piece. Please."

It didn't take long for Chast to start seeing red. The thief that she decided to save was the very same thief that stole the very first set of real armor she had ever worn. It took all of Chast's restraint to keep herself from commanding Owar to perform a pilot loop and send the thief of her violet vestments into the inferno below them. With clenched teeth, the Falcon Knight could only manage a simple nod in acknowledgement of Ulysses' request.

Ulysses let out a shaky sigh of relief, apparently as aware of the danger of Chast's emotions as Chast herself was. He wiped his eyes with a red sleeve, calming himself down before he worked up the courage to speak once again.

"I… I neva really took tha time to consider that the people I was pinchin' things from had… feelin's," he whispered. If his remorse wasn't genuine, he was a hell of an actor. Chast hadn't heard such a heartfelt apology out of any of the people she _did_ trust, but his societal status still put her on edge.

Ulysses continued, "I just took things. Better them than me, right? But the day afta I took yer armor, I saw ya again. That… eh, _convasation_ we had left me witha impression that I won't neva fo'get."

A short silence filled the air after Ulysses came to the end of his speech. But Chast remained unconvinced that this Plegian thief was willing to throw away his entire lifestyle for someone that he had met only an hour or so beforehand.

Her mistrust didn't hesitate to blend into her speech.

"Really," the Falcon Knight scoffed, "After all those years you spent stealing and lying, you expect me to believe you're just going to up and leave it behind?"

`"Look, I know it sounds ridiculous," Ulysses insisted, "An' I wouldn't believe me neither if I was sayin' things like that. But I wanna turn ova a new leaf. Honest. Maybe put somma my skills ta betta use, y'know?"

Chast sighed. This man was nothing if not insufferable. Who did he think he was,? He wasn't fooling anybody. But she admitted that his words did have some merit. After all, he did go out of his way to save her back in Abnorun.

"I will admit that saving my life and Jae's life was… _valiant_… of you. And for doing that much, I'll look the other way when we land outside of Abnorun. But after that, you're on your own. Do you understand?"

Ulysses nodded, averting his gaze from Chast as he did so. Oddly, the thief seemed disappointed. Was he not grateful for her letting him go free? But either way, the Falcon Knight was glad that she would be rid of him once they landed outside the city. She would skewer the man if she had to spend another moment with him.

And no amount of deceitful apology would be enough to bind the wounds of the precious armor he had stolen.

* * *

It wasn't long after Ulysses' discussion with the headstrong pegasus dame that the two had landed outside the northern gates of Abnorun. True to the burly wyvern wrangler's word, not a single Sons of Naga's siege weapon was to be seen. But whether or not that was a strategical quirk that Ulysses couldn't understand or a fault in their plans, the Plegian thief would never know.

As soon as the two landed, Chast—that was her name, right? Ulysses briefly wondered if it was short for something else before pushing the thought from his mind—had given him an angered stare, as if she was telling him to get lost. Ulysses would be sure to do that, true to the dame's wishes, but he at least wanted to give his thanks to the wyvern master before he departed into the dry, dry desert beyond.

When Ulysses approached the sitting, azure-armored man, he noticed that he was cradling Jae's limp, yet still breathing body in his arms, coaxing what seemed to be an elixir down his throat. Ulysses hadn't known Jae well, but he had tossed him a few gold pieces every now and again to give his thanks to the ancient, yet youthful manakete.

"I jus' wanted ta say thanks for givin' me that opportunity to redeem myself in Chast's eyes," the dapper Plegian thief said, drawing the wyvern rider's attention, "And fer helpin' ol' Jae get better, too."

The burly, darker-skinned man gave him a warm, almost fatherly smile as the last few drops of elixir slid down Jae's throat.

"I should be thanking you," the man responded, "Without your help, I'd imagine that both Chast and this manakete here wouldn't have made it out of there alive. And there were far too many Sons for any of us to slip away and help her. Your quick thinking was equal parts courageous and valorous."

"Aw, shucks. I didn't do nuffin at all. Any of ya woulda done the same if ya had the chance."

Ulysses' conversation with the burly wyvern man gave him a feeling he hadn't experienced in years. He felt a true friendship coming from the man in front of him; not just the faux tolerence that the fences he traded with gave him. It made Ulysses slightly upset that he would have to part ways with these kind folks, but there was no other way for the pegasus dame to forgive him.

It would just have to do for now. There were plenty of other towns that he could strike up a more valorous profession in.

"Anyway, I jus' wanted to give my gratitude before I skip town. It was a real pleasure gettin' ta meet ya, sir."

The wyvern rider's warm and fatherly expression soon shifted to that of confusion.

"Wait, you're not staying with us?" he asked, "The desert is no place for anyone to travel alone, especially one as poorly equipped as you."

That struck Ulysses completely off guard. From what he picked up from Chast's angered words, their entire group was dedicated to eradicating people like him. 'Keeping the world a clean and just place,' and all that.

As such, Ulysses found himself only able to respond with a stuttered, "H-huh?"

Immediately, the azure wyvern man's smile returned as he gave a soft laugh.

"Is it really that surprising?"

"Well, yeah!" Ulysses answered, still slightly flustered, "I got a mouthful of the whole 'keepin' the world clean and pure' speech from Chast back there! Dontcha people not like folks like me?"

"Friend, I've spent my whole life dedicated to meting out justice for everyone who has been wronged," the burly man stated, his expression becoming far more serious, "But I have always believed in redemption. Believe it or not, Valkus over there lived on the wrong side of law for years before Hunter, Marius, and I found her on Regna Ferox's west coast."

Ulysses followed the man's pointed finger to the dark armored dame, who was laughing at something the blacksmith—Dominic?—had just said. She looked a lot like the pegasus dame did: strong-willed and determined with an air of properness. Someone like her doing the same things someone like himself had done just seemed wrong to him.

"For serious?" the Plegian thief blurted out.

"It's hard for me to think of her like she was the day we met, believe me. But I have always held the opinion that anyone is able to change, no matter what class or creed they come from. And for saving Chast's life, I don't see why I can't give the same opportunity to you."

Ulysses was truly touched. Compared to Chast from earlier, this man was a kinder, more compassionate soul than anyone he had ever met, both from his time as a street urchin and as a successful robber lord. To be given an opportunity like this one was unthinkable.

But apparently, it was unthinkable to someone else as well. Clearing her throat, Chast made her presence known to both Ulysses and the burly wyvern man. And boy, was she upset.

"First you want me to abandon Nila and Chris," she said, anger clawing at the back of her throat, "And now you expect me to sit idly by as you _voluntarily_ bring a thief into our ranks? I can't believe this!"

The azure-armored man was nothing if not patient. Compared to Ulysses' horror stricken face, he seemed calmer than ever. How the pegasus dame's red-eyed glare wasn't intimidating to the man was far beyond Ulysses' scope of understanding.

"The only thing I _expect_ you to do is to respect Ulysses," he implored firmly, "You don't have to get along with him, but I believe him to have a heart of gold buried in his chest. People can change, Chast."

"More like a heart of filth," the pegasus dame quipped, before averting her gaze from the azure-armored rider, "Forget this. Come talk to me when you decide to be the level-headed leader that I respected again."

Without another word, Chast tossed Jae's dragonstone and headpiece into the sand at Ulysses' feet before storming off further into the desert, far away from any of her other teammates. The thief picked up the pulsing, green stone, cradling the surprisingly heavy object in his hands nurturingly before plucking the considerably lighter headpiece from the sand as well.

But as if what had happened didn't even bother him, the burly man returned his gaze to the Plegian thief's.

"I apologize for her," he addressed, "But whether or not Chast looks like it, she's still only seventeen years old."

"Seventeen?" Ulysses gaped, "She looks more like twenty-five ta me!"

"Chast tries her best to act well above her age, but she is still young and idealistic. Good and evil are still black and white to her, instead of how gray everything is in the real world."

Ulysses didn't answer the darker-skinned man, instead opting to watch the pegasus dame stomp off into the sand to vent her rage. But even as Ulysses saw Chast at her most vicious, an intense desire to prove himself in her eyes burned at the very pit of his soul.

"I'm gonna make her see that I'm not so bad one day," the Plegian thief stated without prelude, "And maybe I'll even get her ta forgive me fer all the bad that I've done."

"Just remember that I'm trusting you to be who you're claiming to be," the wyvern man warned, a departure from his understanding nature from earlier, "It's not that I think you're lying, but I've met some people who can't change, no matter how hard they try."

Ulysses started to respond to the burly man, wanting to assure him that he would be the most honorable man he could be, but he was quickly interrupted by a groaning noise emanating from just below him. Jae, who the wyvern rider was still holding in his arms, had begun to stir. Miraculously, the bloody gashes in the manakete's skin had completely healed, visible through the tears in his exotic clothing.

Ulysses knew that elixirs were powerful, but to have fully healed the manakete in such a short amount of time was still baffling to him. Jae looked like a murder scene in a dark alley moments ago, and now his pale skin was completely mended, devoid of any scars.

And he was waking up, to boot. The little guy certainly didn't waste any time getting up and at it either, as he was sitting up in the wyvern rider's lap, gazing around the desert vista with an expression of pure bewilderment.

"Where…" the manakete began before coughing heavily. Ulysses hadn't quite noticed before, what with all his wounds, but Jae looked like he hadn't had a thing to eat or drink in days. Fortunately, the wyvern rider offered the young-looking manakete his canteen, which he downed immediately.

The burly man, despite his threatening presence, was much gentler than Ulysses could have ever imagined him being.

"It's okay," he assured, "You're safe with us. My name is Matthew, but please call me Matt."

Matthew. So that was the blue-armored man's name. It had only just dawned on Ulysses now that he had failed to mention his name at any time before that. But there were far more pressing matters at hand.

"You… saved me…" Jae whispered, his voice still pained from his dehydration and starvation, "T-thank… you…"

"No need to thank me," Matt responded, "Thank the white-haired woman over there. Her name is… Chast…"

Matt awkwardly trailed off as he redirected his attention to the pegasus dame who had stormed off earlier. Ulysses initially assumed that Chast had abandoned the company entirely, but he couldn't have been further from the truth.

Chast was pointing her lance into a hole, which was positioned not too far from where everyone else was standing. Ulysses also thought she saw a flash of red inside the pit, but he couldn't be sure. Whether or not Matt saw the red too, Ulysses couldn't be sure of, but the wyvern knight immediately stood up, unsheathing his axe from its holster on his back.

"Ulysses, make sure that Jae is safe."

Ulysses nodded, taking the half-conscious manakete in his arms. Matt then called to the dark-armored, spiky blond haired swordsman who was conversing with the blacksmith and Valkus.

"Marius, come help me with this."

With a nod, Marius unsheathed his odd, snake-wrapped sword, and followed his leader into the dust and sand where Chast was waiting.

* * *

Dust was thrown into the air as insurmountable fragments of stone shattered at the base of the underground staircase. As it settled, Nila was standing face to face with several massive shards of ornate stone, their combined mass more than enough to seal off the admittedly tiny entrance from whence they came.

Grace gave an outwardly-protruding rock a strong shove, which only managed to nudge the obstacle an ultimately insignificant amount. Pulling the shard yielded nothing more. She eventually gave the barrier a dejected kick before taking a seat on a wall just to the side of the now-useless entrance.

"Great," she pouted, burying her head in her hands, "Now we're in a hole."

"And what a peculiar hole it appears to be," Queen Meliora responded, taking several steps into the oddly well-lit room, "Look around."

The five companions were standing in what appeared to be a tiny workshop. The oddly bright lighting emanated from several eternally-burning magical fires, which crackled away in smoke-stained lanterns dotting the smooth stone walls. A staggering amount of parchment was strewn over the central, dilapidated work table alongside dried-up inkwells and various other devices.

Something about the workstation fascinated Nila. It seemed plain, and quite a bit disheveled, but it was enticing at the same time. He heard a faint voice call to him, but whether or not it was terrestrial or another hallucination was beyond him. Nevertheless, the Plegian paid it no mind as he limped over to the study desk. Pulling over a rotting chair and taking a seat, Nila allowed his eyes to pore over the sheets of parchment strewn over the workbench.

Nila picked up a brittle page with heavy traits of rot on its edges with his working hand, carefully scouring the runes outlining the spell. His eyes fell to the name hastily scrawled in the bottom right corner of the page.

"Yots…mungand?" the Plegian muttered under his breath, the word strange and foreign upon his tongue. Nila set the page aside and recited the names of the others strewn over the worktable. "Dulam… Gleipnir… Naglfar… Worm… Fenrir… Eclipse…"

Nila practically tasted each and every spell's name, each one more peculiar than the next. He had never heard of any of these spells before. Never had a single one been mentioned in one of his numerous volumes of historical magic.

These spells were alien.

The tactician turned to his friends, who were all standing together in a corner of the room close to the work table. Meliora and Iris were earnestly examining their surroundings, but his other two companions were watching him closely. His fellow Plegian seemed to eye him with mild curiosity, while Grace's expression was oddly difficult to read.

"What?" Nila asked, his gaze hardening, "Is something wrong?"

Grace averted her gaze, opting not to respond. Chris, however, slowly approached the workbench and took a stack of parchment sheets in his hands, which were far removed from the scattered spells Nila had helped himself to.

"Fimbulvetr… Meteor… Cymbeline… Shaver… Bolting…" the dark mage listed, shifting each sheet to the back of the pile as he spoke, "I recognize only so precious few of these."

"You've seen these before?"

Chris nodded and placed one of the pages he had reclaimed in Nila's hand. "A few. Take Shaver, for example. It's quite the ancient spell, being an early predecessor of more powerful wind spells that we know of today, such as Arcwind. But I've never seen Fimbulvetr or Bolting mentioned anywhere before."

"What about these spells?" the olive-skinned tactician inquired, "There's quite a few more."

Nila stacked the assorted spells, handing them to his fellow Plegian. The tactician wasn't quite able to tell through Chris' mask, but he assumed that his eyes were scanning the top page thoroughly. After a moment, the dark mage shifted the page to the bottom of the stack and continued his examination.

While Chris immersed himself in the spells, Nila's gaze turned briefly to Iris and Meliora, who were speaking in hushed voices near the caved-in stairs. Grace occupied her time by exploring the dimly lit, expansive chamber. Eventually, the rustling of paper sheets recaptured Nila's attention, as Chris held the pages out to him.

"It's the same as before," the dark mage said, scratching the back of his head, "I recognize Worm and Dulam from ancient history, and I believe I have heard of Yotsmungand and Fenrir having appeared in a distant land far in the past, but never have I heard of the others."

Nila accepted the papers, placing them in one of the interior pockets of his coat.

"Keep those spells safe," Chris urged, holding up a sole finger for emphasis, "I'm not sure what they are doing here, and even where most of them have come from, but they may prove useful in the future. Especially to a strategist such as yourself."

The tactician nodded, patting his coat in affirmation.

"They won't leave my side."

"Excellent," he smiled, and patted Nila gently on the shoulder. "I'm going to assist your friend Grace with finding an escape route. Search around for more spells or intriguing items in the meantime."

Nila nodded, his hands immediately starting upon the desk once again. With the spells out of the way, the Plegian noticed how incredibly disorganized the previous owner kept his surroundings. Dozens of half-full and empty inkwells littered the wooden desk, some with their contents spilled over and others shattered. Broken quills from birds, pegasi, and griffons alike were shoved off into a faraway corner, some of which had fallen to the cold, dark floor.

Nila gathered up the glassware and writing utensils, placing each object on the floor gently. The size of the clutter seemed to grow exponentially as each one was individually removed from the desk. The task proved tedious with the use of only one arm, but eventually the desk was clear, save for dust and spilled ink, and the floor was littered with broken feathers and bottles.

With the desk clear of its jumbled mess, Nila was free to explore the surface of the table itself. Unfortunately, aside for a mind-bogglingly thick layer of grime, the worktable was near-completely clear; no unlucky sheets of parchment managed to work their way into the manmade tar pit covering the surface of the table.

The removal of the inkwells did help draw Nila's attention to the piles of brown, leatherbound books at the back of the table. With his good hand, the tactician removed one from the pile and cracked it open, sending an abnormally large amount of dust into the air around him. To his surprise, however, the contents of the tome were completely blank. From cover to cover, not a drop of ink managed to reach the surface of its pages.

Nila pulled another from the shelf, and rapidly flipped through the similarly barren pages before tossing it to the side in frustration. The remaining books yielded similar results, and thusly found themselves in a heap aside the ruined ink bottles and quills.

Just before he was about to step away from the table and kick a wall in frustration, a flash of red caught his eye. Returning his attention to the desk, he soon noticed a scarlet, leatherbound journal sitting neatly in a small indent in the table, previously hidden underneath the enormous stack of blank tomes. Plucking the tome out, Nila dusted the cover off and opened the book to its first page.

Not even halfway into the tiny, scrawled text on the initial page, the Plegian slammed the cover shut and placed it calmly on his lap.

"Everyone," he called in a voice just loud enough to be heard by everyone in the compact room, "I think you might want to see this."

Grace was the first to his side, and leaned over the back of the chair to get a better look at the object in his possession.

"What is it?" she asked, as the other three Plegians claimed spots around the desk.

Nila took the book in one hand, opening it to its first page.

"Let's just say that it answers a lot of our questions," he responded, "It's a journal."

"A journal? From whoever spent their time down here, right?"

"It couldn't be anyone else. Let me read it aloud…"

– – –

"'If you are reading this journal, I am most likely dead. My name is King Caesar, the current king of Plegia, and I have seen things I do not wish to remember.'" Nila's words faltered in confusion as he reached 'King Caesar,' and he eyed the sentence again after finishing it. "Now, here's what I don't quite understand. Plegia never had a King Caesar."

Grace gingerly removed the book from Nila's hand, reading the first sentence over herself.

"Are you sure?" she asked, returning the leatherbound tome to her friend.

"I'm positive," the tactician responded, nodding once. "I can remember Gangrel, and Validar who briefly assumed power after the Plegia-Ylisse war ended. There weren't any solitary rulers after Grima fell, since Plegia became a bureaucracy until a few generations before Queen Meliora's time."

"It's true," the Autumn Queen confirmed, "I have never heard of a King Caesar either. Never before me, and never after me."

"It could have been that he lived long before Gangrel's time, right?" Grace suggested, trying to make some sense of the situation. Nila felt that she knew that she was grasping at straws to explain Caesar's existence, just like he had.

"I thought that as well," the Plegian said with a nod, "but apparently he was around when Grima was killed. It's written here…"

Nila cleared his throat, and continued his dictation.

"'After witnessing the end of Grima, I have found myself intrigued with the potential of the Outrealm Gate. Several visits to several realities have yielded magical knowledge far beyond what those of us on this plane have been able to master.'"

"The Outrealm Gate?" Chris pondered, rolling the term over his tongue, "That is a name I have not heard mentioned in quite some time. It would explain the odd array of spells as well."

"Spells?" Iris piped up, confusion tinging her voice, "What spells?"

Nila drew the stack of loose spells from his coat pocket and handed them to the dark-dressed woman.

"Caesar was a collector of ancient and odd spells. They're unlike anything I've seen before."

Iris took her time browsing the spells, scouring each and every one and absorbing every detail. She muttered something akin to "remarkable" under her breath as she turned from spell to spell.

While Iris read, Chris continued, "It confirms that _whoever _this person is, they lived around the time of the second Awakening. The Outrealm Gate has been dormant for ages."

"He's right," Grace said with a nod, "I've seen it on my travels. But doesn't something about all this seem… odd?"

Nila tilted his head to the side in confusion, turning his neck back to meet Grace's gaze.

"How do you mean?"

"Well… This man claims he was a king, which we've already proven he's not. And from what Chris has told me, the majority of the spells he found are ancient, yet of this world. We don't even know if the Outland spells even work."

"What are you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting that this 'Caesar' is a lunatic. One with an appreciation for history, but a lunatic nonetheless."

Nila paused, skimming ahead in the text to see if he could refute with any evidence that Caesar would have offered. Instead, the tactician sighed, "You may be right. Listen to this: 'Since my visits to the Gate, I have been plagued with terrible, terrible visions. I have seen the future. I have seen the past. I have seen the fates of infinite worlds. The end is nigh, and there is little you or I can do to stop it.'"

"And I'm Exalt Spes," Grace mocked in a low voice.

"It certainly doesn't give his sanity much credit," Chris echoed.

Nila read the section of text over and over again, trying to wrap his mind around what exactly Caesar meant. He believed that the exotic spells gave the peculiar man some credit, but he still held inklings of doubt. Everything could have been the fabrications of insanity.

A feeling that resonated all too well with Nila.

The tactician thoroughly examined the page once again, spotting an odd array of letters at the bottom right of the page. He read it over once, twice, and a third time before halting, squinting to determine whether or not he was actually looking at a real word.

"…Ouhjqjd?" he said, separating the confounding phrase into each of its individual letters, "How do you even pronounce that?"

Chris plucked the journal from Nila's hands this time, thoroughly examining the oddity before passing it back to him.

"It appears to be gibberish to me," the mage stated flatly, "Perhaps this is the first instance of our friend 'King' Caesar losing his mind?"

"Whatever it is, there's plenty more of it," Nila affirmed, "Everything on the next few pages are just like it."

Nila flipped to the next page, turning the book open for the others to study. Chris once again took the ancient journal from his fellow Plegian, reading each line of text thoroughly. Grace, however, barely gave the tome a look before turning away.

"Forget the thing," she scoffed, "Like I said: 'Caesar' was insane! Maybe those letters meant something to his twisted mind, but it means nothing to us."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Chris objected, "I now believe that these symbols have some sort of meaning. On the fourth page, 'xli' is repeated five times. I would not call that a coincidence. But whether the end of the world is coming or not is still up to fate."

Grace threw her hands up in dejection before slowly walking towards the far wall.

"We don't have time for this. Keep the thing if you want, but I'm far more concerned with finding a way out of here."

– – –

Some amount of time had definitely passed. Whether it was ten minutes, ten hours, or ten days, Nila couldn't say for sure. He had since moved the rotting chair to a far wall, watching the incandescent light built up in his veins slowly fade away. He looked up for a moment, watching Grace tearing away fruitlessly at the caved-in staircase. He also noticed Iris sitting next to Meliora in silence, the latter of whom occupied her time with tossing the last of the empty inkwells against the wall opposite to her. Nila finally turned to Chris who was sitting aside him, staring expressionlessly at Caesar's odd journal.

"I'm… not… about… to die… here…" the blue-cloaked Ylissean panted, tossing a dislodged stone piece to the ground, barely forming a dent in the hardy rock. She eventually gave the cave-in one final kick before falling to the ground and laying her head dejectedly against the insurmountable stone.

"Oh, what's the point…"

"Caesar must have been quite the bold fool to build a room with only one exit," Chris muttered, placing the perplexing tome in Nila's lap above him, "If this dungeon is even his work at all."

"Look upon his works, ye mighty, and despair," Meliora scoffed, tossing the final inkwell into the smooth stone wall, which shattered into tiny pieces indistinguishable from the dozens that came before it.

"Look what's happened now," Other Nila giggled, drawing his attention away from reality, "All that work for nothing. Now you will die."

"There has to be a way out," Nila murmured in frustration, "Caesar was paranoid. There is no reason that there shouldn't be a second exit."

"You say it with such fervor! But I know you better than that. Your hope will die eventually. I can guarantee that."

The voice cackled, causing Nila to clutch his head with his right hand in pain and frustration.

"What do you want?" the Plegian stated tensely, in a voice far more hushed than before. Pain and anger alike dripped from his lips.

"You have failed, plain and simple. But there is an escape…"

Nila felt his gaze being drawn to Ashen, which was still tucked at his side. The tactician removed his blade from his waist, holding it firmly in his right hand. The ash-gray blade still crackled occasionally with built-up dark energy, the aftermath of Nila's first Expiration trapped in the blade even after all the time that had passed.

"Do what you must," Other Nila hummed with indifference, "But this is your chance to join your sister in the afterlife."

The tactician bounced the blade up and down in his hand, eying each and every crevasse in its crooked finish. Every scratch and every imperfection was imprinted in his mind as he gazed upon his first ever and most prized creation.

Was he seriously considering suicide?

A deep shiver ran through Nila's spine as he threw his weapon to the floor in front of him. He looked upon Ashen, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the blade's polished sheen. It looked like him, yet seemed so alien: an evil grin upon his face, and striking red eyes glaring back at him.

The sudden noise instantly drew the intention of the others, and Nila turned away from Ashen to find four pairs of eyes looked upon him. Looking back, the reflection was replaced with a mortified version of himself, more akin to how he assumed he would look.

"You okay, Nila?" Grace asked with concern, rising from her laying-down position aside the cave-in.

"Y-yes," Nila stammered as he attempted to force out a response, "I shocked myself with the blade. Not to worry."

While the tactician assumed that his friend would try to comfort him as she usually did, the myrmidon just shrugged and turned back over onto her side. It was glaringly obvious that she was emotionally drained from the dire situation they had found themselves faced with.

"_Dammit, what the hell are you trying to make me do? This isn't me," _he thought, confident that his message would still get through to his malignant voice. At which, he was met with no response. The chilling feeling marking Other Nila's presence had also faded into nothingness at some point, the specificity of the time being lost upon him.

But Nila was content to sit alone in silence, holding his sister's pendant in his right hand to comfort himself. Such a fate was far more preferable to bearing through Other Nila's aggressive and downright hateful words. The Plegian always took time to appreciate the moments of silence that his reflection granted him.

But was Other Nila the only one responsible for the way he was feeling?

Nila was keenly aware of the feelings of doom befalling his friends, similar to the terrible thought that had just crossed his mind. Grace was laying on her side, facing the cave-in blocking the entrance. Chris had since moved from Nila's side towards Grace, and was sitting against a wall with his dark hood pulled over his head. Meliora and Iris were situated across from the piles of broken inkwells, gazing blankly at the splotches of black painted across the wall.

What could they all be thinking?

"_There must be _something _I can do to save us," _Nila thought, as he racked his mind for anything he could use to assist him, _"Think. Caesar was insane. And he was paranoid that something would happen to him. If there's a secondary exit, it must be hidden. But where…?"_

The tactician cracked open Caesar's journal once again, thoroughly scanning the tome for something to assist him. But as he scanned each and every page for some sort of answer to his plight, he was only met with the same garbled and useless text that adorned every other page.

"_It's not in the book," _he thought as he shut the cover and placed it inside his coat, _"But it _must _be somewhere!"_

Nila rubbed his temples, delving deeper into the recesses of his mind.

"_Think, dammit!"_

"Sometimes," a voice quite similar to his own whispered, its quiet tone managing to pierce the silence encompassing the workroom, "It's better to think with your hands instead of your head."

Nila's head shot up, trying to determine the source of the unexpected sound. This voice was different than Other Nila and the mindless voices plaguing his mind, which always projected themselves from outside his head. This one came from within.

"_Think with your hands," _Nila thought, mulling the concept over in his head while staring at his two ashy-brown hands, _"Just like Marisa always used to tell me…"_

The tactician's hands instantly fell to his sword, which he unsheathed once again. This time, the sword's motion would be guided with purpose instead of cowardice.

"_That's it!"_

Nila flipped his grip on Ashen, pointing the violet-colored base of the hilt forwards while keeping the blade tucked downwards. He turned to face the wall behind him, and slammed the hilt into the smooth stone surface. The dull sound of metal on stone jolted the other four from their doom-ridden trances, and drew their attention to him.

"Nila?" Grace offered with a hesitant voice, "What are you—"

The Plegian refused to answer, and his friend's question was cut off as Nila slammed the hilt against the wall once again, this time a few steps down. He continued the motion of stepping and slamming, covering each and every section the smooth surface had to offer as his four companions watched.

_Thud. Thud. Thud. Thonk._

Nila paused at the section of wall that produced the nonuniform sound, looking the seemingly identical surface up and down once, pondering what exactly was the cause of such an anomaly. After a moment, his eyes widened as he realized the source. Without turning from the dull yellow plane, he concluded, "This portion of the wall is hollow."

Grace immediately shot up, running her pale hands up and down the smooth surface.

"Meaning that there's something behind it! Our way out!" the myrmidon beamed as she turned to her friend. "Do you know how to break it open?"

"Two steps ahead of you, Grace," a voice called from behind the two. Standing with spell tome in hand and yellow runes dancing around him was Chris, who was without a doubt channeling a spell. "You might want to stand aside."

The two bolted to the side as the dark mage let the spell fly, which coalesced as four massive black points of dark energy. The points collided into each other in the shape of a tilted cross, sending stone flying in every direction. Nila shielded his eyes from the blast as shrapnel bounced off his coat and the back of his head to the cold, dark floor.

In the aftermath of Chris' Ruin spell, all that remained from the sturdy stone wall was a gaping hole with an additional, hastily carved set of steep stairs leading into the world above. The dark mage gently shut the covers of his tome, putting the grimoire in his robes for later use.

"Alright, you insane son of a wyvern," Chris spat, taking confident steps towards the breach, "Where you will bring us next?"

* * *

The upwardly-spiraling set of rough-carved stairs were a tedious climb, wearing heavily on Grace's legs after all the running and fighting she had done in such a short period of time. She sighed internally as her group reached a flat landing at the top of the steps, complete with a ladder and a sturdy wooden trapdoor.

The myrmidon gently laid Nila on his feet, as she had opted to carry the weakened tactician for the second time in spite of his many complaints. But with his feet on the ground, Nila's eyes immediately fell upon the ladder and trapdoor set in front of him.

"Looks like this is our way out," he said, his eyes slowly following the rotted wooden rungs up the stone wall they were affixed to. The Plegian opened and closed his left hand's fingers, before slowly stretching his arm out. He then turned to Grace, a soft smile upon his lips.

"I can handle the climb. I'll go first to check if it's safe."

Before Grace could protest, Nila was already a quarter of the way up the ladder. Granted, it was only a few rungs high, so simply stepping onto the ladder was enough to get him well on his way to the top. He carefully scaled the rungs, each wooden beam giving slightly as he put weight on it.

It took the weakened Nila a while to reach the peak of the admittedly modest set of rungs, but the look of accomplishment upon his face eventually found its way into Grace's own expression.

There was still another task ahead of him, however: actually opening the trapdoor. Using his good arm for stability, he pushed upon the sturdy wooden surface with his left arm. Try as he may, the trapdoor simply refused to budge. Nila then switched to using his right arm against the barrier, his weaker arm managing to keep the Plegian attached to the ladder. Using all his strength, Nila was able to make the trapdoor rise to a nearly open position. Unfortunately, however, his accomplishment was only rewarded with a faceful of sand from the surface, which quickly found its way into Nila's amber-colored eyes.

Which, of course, wrested Nila's already weak grip from the ladder rung, sending him tumbling to the ground.

Grace swooped into position to catch the shocked and blinded Nila, but his weight and the force of the fall only managed to send Grace directly to the rough-carved stone floor underneath her. Grace shut her eyes tightly to brace for impact, which came as a combination of Nila's weight and the floor underneath her. She yelped as her head narrowly missed connecting with the floor.

The myrmidon lay motionless for a moment with her eyes shut, her left shoulder emitting a sharp pain from where the majority of the impact from the fall had hit her. When Grace opened her eyes, she found herself face to face with Nila's Mark of Grima and a tiny, golden chain that presumably belonged to some sort of necklace.

In all the years Grace had known Nila, she had never gotten a very good look at Nila's mark. He always managed to keep it hidden underneath a knitted violet scarf that was a mainstay of his outfit in the days before he inherited his mother's coat, and Grace briefly wondered what had happened to it in the years she was away from the Plegian. With the Grimleal coat upon his back, it was still difficult to see, but not hidden in the same way that Grace remembered it. And, truth be told, she was mesmerized as the violet symbol pulsed slowly with a soft, almost unnoticeable light.

The moment ended as quickly as it began, as Nila pulled himself off of Grace as fast as he could. When he was standing on his two feet, he offered a hand to Grace.

"Are you alright?" Nila cringed as he looked upon the myrmidon, whose shoulder was bent in an awkward position from the collision. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Grace accepted Nila's hand with the one arm that didn't hurt, eventually managing a shaky standing position with her friend's help. Pain immediately shot through her left shoulder, and her opposite hand immediately clutched the injured area.

"I'm fine," she insisted, albeit through gritted teeth, "You just landed on my shoulder. Nothing to worry about."

After a moment passed, however, Grace felt the pain in her joint immediately and inexplicably melt away. Looking around, she caught a glimpse of a barely-visible green light, which vanished in an instant. The myrmidon instantly identified the source, and turned to Iris. Her staff was out, just as she expected.

"You didn't have to waste a use of your healing orb on that!"

Iris, however, simply smiled and tapped the base of her intricate staff on the ground.

"Grace, this orb hasn't broken in over twenty-five years. If it breaks now, I'll be far more than surprised."

"That long, huh?" Grace pondered, "I thought staff orbs were known for being fragile."

"If you take care of your things, they'll last a lot longer than you'd expect!"

"Huh, is that so…" Grace immediately thought of her mother's Levin Sword, which was still safely tucked away in her pack. She always remembered the blade being pristine and ready for use, until she and her mother left the Plegian Mercenaries after her father's death.

"_I suppose being on the move every day for almost a year would do that to it…"_

She pushed the thought from her mind, immediately turning her attention to the ladder and the trapdoor.

"I'll take care of the trapdoor," Grace said, jumping onto the rungs almost immediately. She scaled the wall in record time, giving a curious glance to the trapdoor above her. The Ylissean wondered for a moment just how much sand was between the barrier and the surface, and why it was so much trouble for Nila to handle. Wrapping her legs carefully behind one of the ladder rungs, Grace pushed on the trapdoor with all her might, using both of her hands. She tightly shut her eyes as a cascade of yellow sand poured over her head.

The sand stream slowly died down, and Grace managed to fully prop the wooden door open. She shook the sand from her hair and pulled herself over the edge of the previously-obstructed opening.

Only to find herself facing straight into the outstretched edges of a four-pronged gilded lance. And its white-haired and red-eyed owner hardly seemed happy to see her.

"Who are you?" the lancer demanded, inching her weapon closer to Grace's astonished face, "And where have you come from?"

Grace, however, could only manage to balk at the three's angered expressions. She tried to say something—anything to tell the adversaries to stand down. Even after putting all of her thought into a meaningful sentence, the myrmidon could only muster a pained, "Erm… hello."

Unsurprisingly, she were hardly amused. And the commotion that Grace and the person who was holding her at lancepoint had caused attracted two others to the trapdoor. A spiky, blond-haired swordsman, toting a peculiar snake-wrapped blade, and a muscular, blue-armored axeman. The axe-wielder spoke a few hushed words to his two companions before taking over for the younger, white-haired, female lancer.

"Give me your name and your affiliation! Now!"

"…Grace," the myrmidon managed to sputter out, "I'm Grace. Affiliation…?"

"Are you with the Sons of Naga? I'll have your answer now, _Grace_!"

"No, no, of course not! Just let me get my friends and the Queen out of this hole, and—"

"The Queen?" This time, it was the dark-armored sword-wielder who joined the conversation. The dusty blond-haired swordsman seemed confused, yet lost in thought as if he was trying to remember something. After a moment, the swordsman continued, "Do you happen to have a Chris and a Nila down there with you?"

"One of each, actually," Grace responded, "Why? Do you know them?"

The messy-haired man turned to the burlier, dark-skinned axe fighter to his right.

"When you said that you believed Nila would be okay, I would have never imagined that we would find them in a place like this, Matt."

The axeman—apparently named Matt—gave a short laugh and smiled at his companion.

"Heh. You and me both, Marius. Now help me get this lady out of that pit, got it?"

– – –

A short while later, Grace found herself standing on the dusty desert sand alongside Nila, Chris, Iris, and Meliora. They had just finished introductions, and Grace was getting used to the names of their unlikely saviors: Marius—the blond-haired swordsman, Matt—the muscular axeman with a behemoth of a wyvern, Chast—the white-haired Ylissean Falcon Knight, Hunter—who she recognized from earlier in the day, Valkus—the dark-armored knight, Bell—the gray-armored fighter with dual hand axes, Ulysses—the rumored Abnorun thief, Jae—a half-starved half-manakete, and Dom—the city blacksmith.

Not long after the group had risen from the underground workshop, the white-haired Falcon Knight—Chast—was overjoyed at Nila and Chris' presence. Grace had only managed to pick up pieces of what had happened earlier from Marius and Matt, but apparently the Ylissean was very upset that she wasn't given the chance to rescue the two Plegians from the palace before it went down. She seemed fine around Grace and the others, but judging from the way she looked at Marius, their dispute was far from over.

Grace was also quick to notice how battle-worn the group was, immediately revealing that they had their share of struggles over the past afternoon. Iris had also taken note of this, and took the time to fix everyone up with the red-jeweled Hammerne orb she briefly attached to her staff.

While the group mingled, Grace noticed Matt strike up a conversation with Nila.

"Nila," he said, "I told everyone that I believed you would be able to save the queen and get her to safety, but never I never imagined that you'd escape the palace through a secret tunnel. After you blew it up, no less."

Grace could almost feel the embarrassment course through her friend. He blushed heavily, his cheeks tinged with a combination of red and violet, interestingly enough, as he averted his gaze from the azure-armored rider.

"I didn't mean for it to happen that way," he said, "And it was the ballista that did it in in the end, not me. But I certainly didn't help much…"

Matt laughed heartily before placing a hand on the tactician's shoulder.

"I know, pal. Just messing with you." But before long, however, his jubilant visage melted away as he reacquired the more serious facade that Grace was familiar with. He continued, "But it is good to know that you survived. Glad to have you back."

"Good to see you too, Matt."

The rider then turned to the rest of the group, adopting a powerful tone of authority that Grace would have never expected to come from him.

"I know all of us have had a hell of a time in Abnorun," he spoke with a powerful, commanding voice, "But I think it's about time we got going. Nila, Valkus, I'm going to need your aid with figuring out where to bring the queen, since we sure as hell can't stick around here with her."

Grace's friend nodded, and moved closer to the black-armored woman as he drew a map from the inside of his coat. As the three got to work, Grace briefly wondered exactly how many strange and interesting items he had tucked away in there.

Her thought process was interrupted however, by a blue and gold-colored _something_ tucked away behind a sand dune not far from where the group was standing. Due to the distance between her and the unknown object, as well as the dust and sand picked up by the light winds, Grace wasn't able to deduce what exactly it was.

Until the _something _drew a massive, gold-metal bow.

Before Grace even had the time to shout a warning, the mysterious figure had nocked an arrow and pulled back the mighty drawstring.

_Twang._

The gold-tipped arrow soared through the air, cutting through the twisting winds with a speed the likes of which Grace had never seen in her life. She was motionless, unable to act as the projectile flew on wings of unparalleled celerity.

And right into the left temple of an unsuspecting Dominic.

The blacksmith never reacted to the impact, nor did he see the arrow coming. All his lifeless body was able to do was fall limply to his right, crashing into the soft desert sand below him. A large pool of blood quickly formed underneath his lifeless body.

He was dead. There was no doubt about it.

Scarlet poured across the yellow sands, but none were able to react properly to the blacksmith's death. Jae called out Dominic's name, and quickly shifted into his dragon form to protect his fallen body. But the the majority of the group was forced to quickly scatter to safer positions, dodging the hailstorm of arrows that was quick to follow.

Chast, however, opted to charge straight into danger, ignoring the ever-present threat that the archer's bow presented. She thrusted twice with her blessed lance, but the archer managed to dodge each of her strikes with ease.

Oddly enough, the figure wasn't interested in taking Chast out. They continued forward, unfazed by their encounter, right into Grace's reach. The myrmidon struck quickly, but even her sword's speed was no match for the blindingly fast archer as the myrmidon's steel blade struck nothing but air.

Unlike her encounter with the Falcon Knight, the archer drew a greatsword from her back, using the mighty weapon to parry Grace's smaller sword with ease. However, the force of Grace's strike was enough to surprise the archer, leaving her wide open for an attack. The myrmidon quickly thrusted with her steel blade directly at the archer's head, but they managed to move their head to the side just in time to dodge the majority of the stab.

Grace's blade, however, managed to tear straight through the archer's blue leather hood, severing it from their cuirass. The archer flinched in surprise as her hood fell to the sand below, unmasking the whole of her face save the portion covered by a similarly-colored bandana.

Long, silver hair tumbled over the archer's shoulders as her similarly-colored eyes widened in shock. She skidded along the sand, giving Grace plenty of time to observe their attacker. Not a moment later, Grace adopted an expression identical to the mysterious woman's.

Grace had seen this person before. Before long, the myrmidon found herself flashing back to the final night she had spent in Ylisstol proper, over two years ago.

* * *

_Grace stood alongside her mother in front of a Ylissean home, watching her surroundings carefully. The night was near-pitch black, illuminated only by several dimly-lit lanterns infrequently dotting the boulevard._

_Grace's mother tinkered with the lock, tension wrench and lockpick and hand. She had an intense look of concentration upon her face as she worked with the mechanism, struggling to get it open._

_"I've almost got it," her mother muttered, just before the black lockpick snapped in two. She cursed before drawing another one from the inside of her sea-green cloak. "Blast it. I was almost through."_

_Grace took one last sweep of the area before ducking down beside her mother._

_"Are you sure this is a good idea, Mom?" the myrmidon asked, pressing the tips of her pointer fingers together anxiously, "I know we've been doing this for two years, but…"_

_"And I hate it as much as you do, dear," Grace's mother assured, "But we have to eat somehow. With your father and Zoe missing, this is the only option we have left. And we have to stay out of the eye of the Exalt and guards, remember?"_

_"I know… but I still don't like it. It feels wrong."_

_"We're only taking enough food to last us the next few days. It's not like we're lifting valuables!"_

_Grace opened her mouth to argue further, but the the familiar _chink _of the lock signaled that her mother had been successful in opening it. Not wasting a moment, she opened the door and stepped inside, ushering her daughter in behind her._

_Grace closed the door behind her, careful not to make any noise. She and her mother got low to the floor, as her mother led the way in search of the larder._

_But to her horror, a lamp lit directly in front of her and her mother, revealing the stern faces of three guards._

_Grace's mother immediately stood up, guarding her daughter as she worked with the door handle. Grace managed to pull the door open, but a female, silver-haired guard managed to draw a knife, tearing through her mother's side as Grace pulled her through the threshold. Grace's mother cried out in pain, but she immediately ceased her screams as Grace led her into the darkened streets of Ylisstol._

_The two managed to find refuge in a dark alleyway not far from the building, losing their pursuers in the darkness of midnight Ylisse._

_Grace remembered the next few days as a blur. She managed to escape from the city with her mortally-wounded mother, taking refuge in the forest right outside the city. She remembered fumbling with her mother's staff, desperate to mend the wound magically. But she was unable to produce so much as a single spark in the green gem affixed to the top._

_She tried everything she could, but the blood just wouldn't stop. Nothing she could do would work._

_Grace's mother was the third death in her family. She was alone. But the face of the guard who buried that knife in her side would permanently be etched into her brain._

There was no denying it. Grace was face to face with her mother's killer.

* * *

Just as quickly as the flashback occurred, it came to an end without warning. Despite its length, seemingly no time passed between its inception and termination. But enough time had passed to allow the archer to regathered her senses. She hoisted her greatsword and darted off in the opposite direction.

The surge of memories was enough to stun the Ylissean myrmidon, but the thought that familiar archer didn't bother to capitalize on it barely crossed Grace's mind.

"She… she…" she whispered, affixed to the spot. She was barely managing to hold back her tears. "She was the one who killed you, Mom."

Grace's grip tightened on her steel sword as tears streamed down her face. But her sadness was quickly replaced by anger.

"I'm gonna do it, Mom. I'll make her pay for what she did."

The myrmidon turned, ready to strike the silver-haired archer down. But what she saw nearly caused her to drop her weapon into the sand below.

The murderer was grasping a disarmed Nila by the neck, an arrow held in her hand and pointed at the Plegian's throat. A wicked smile played across her face as Grace's friend struggled to remove himself from the archer's grip.

"Take another step," she warned, glaring daggers at Matt, who was only a few steps from the archer and her hostage, "and this pathetic demonspawn dies."

She then craned her neck down to the terrified Nila, her already large smile widening even further.

"Hello again, Fellblood. Remember me?"

"K-Kayla?!" the Plegian stammered, still struggling against the archer's ironclad grip, "How did you—"

"I'm so glad we got to meet again," Kayla cackled, ignoring the tactician's fear entirely, "I know I said we'd meet again on unholy ground, but I suppose this will have to do."

Grace stepped forward, brandishing her weapon with fury in her eyes. Kayla took notice, inching the wicked edge of the arrowhead closer towards Nila's exposed throat.

"Let him go," Grace threatened, "Now."

The silver-haired archer took one look at the myrmidon and laughed again, a disturbing expression of pure delight upon her face.

"I don't think you'd want that, little girl. If I let him go, I'm afraid my clumsy little hands might slip!"

Kayla tightened her grip around Nila's throat, and the Plegian began visibly struggling to breathe. Either Kayla didn't notice or didn't care, as the taunting expression upon her face didn't abate at all.

Grace clenched her teeth, desperate to destroy the murderer in front of her. But with Nila taken hostage, she couldn't bring herself to attack. It was her mother's memory over the life of the sole-remaining friend from her past.

Grace was being forced to choose between the two people she held dearest to her heart. She wasn't aware if Kayla knew what she was doing, but it was undoubtedly twisted.

"If the Fellblood are your enemy, then what's stopping you from killing him right now? Why are you torturing me like this?!"

Kayla's expression of malice quickly changed to one of confusion, hardly befitting her state of authority.

"Torturing… you?" the cultist muttered, "Last I checked, I was torturing this Fellblood here."

The ranger ruffled Nila's hair, almost in an affectionate way. If she had been anyone besides a murderer and a Daughter of Naga, Grace would have expected her to be an older sister or a close friend.

It was absolutely sickening.

"But y'know," Kayla continued, her playfully malignant expression returning as quickly as it had vanished, "I really, _really_ did want to kill him at first. That's the truth. But over the past few days, I realized that this little worm might be worth something to my master alive. Torture, public execution… the possibilities are really quite _endless_ once you get down to the brass tacks! And either way we'll get exactly what we want."

The cultist's grip on Nila's neck with the arm holding the arrow tightened as she extended her opposite arm. Upon her ring finger rested an otherwise unassuming gold ring, save for the thin, barely-visible etchings forming some sort of intricate pattern. The etches also seemed to glow faintly, but the mid-afternoon desert sun made it difficult to determine.

"And just for the occasion, I got this Warp Ring made especially for me!" the cultist gloated, her twisted smile becoming even more wicked, "Pretty nifty, huh?"

"You wouldn't _dare_!" the blue-cloaked myrmidon growled with a warning tone. Kayla cackled once again as she saw the anger burning in Grace's eyes, while she was powerless to do anything to stop her.

"Oh but I would! Now, I'd love to stick around and play with you all, but I've got a rat to deliver to—"

_Twangtwang._

Her sentence was cut short with a pained _gasp_, as he eyes widened in shock and pain. The strike came quickly, but Grace was quick to notice two sets of silver arrow flights protruding from Kayla's back. The blow was enough to wrest the arrow held at Nila's throat from her hand, and the tactician it was pointed at with it. Nila tumbled into the sand, quickly reclaiming Ashen and his spellbook before retreating to a safer position behind Matt.

The azure wyvern-rider then quickly rushed forward in an attempt to exploit the archer's defenselessness, but Kayla was quick to return to her senses. She swung the flat of her greatsword straight into his face with blinding speed, quickly incapacitating him before he had a chance to even consider parrying.

Kayla then held her ring skyward, just as she had done before to attempt to escape with Nila. The already blinding desert light was soon accompanied by an additional luster, originating from the ring itself. The glow then pulsed once before disappearing quicker than it had appeared. And when the light faded, Kayla was gone.

But Grace wasn't about to leave it at that. She dashed forward, planting her sword into the soft sand that the high-ranking Daughter of Naga was standing upon. The myrmidon wildly slashed the ground beneath her, holding onto some faint, miniscule aspect of hope that Kayla would return and she would meet her end at Grace's blade.

But Grace knew what she was doing was illogical. Nevertheless, she stayed that way for some time, sword buried in the ground. There she was, face to face with her mother's murderer, who was holding none other than her best friend by the throat. And in the end, Grace couldn't do a thing about it.

She felt powerless. She was sick with rage for Kayla and disgust for herself.

Grace pulled her sword from the mound of sand she had thrust it into, returning it to its sheath. She kicked the sand where Kayla had once stood, desperately trying to keep her frustration from boiling over. She was upset, no doubt, but she wasn't about to make a scene in front of everyone else. Especially since they had a dead Dominic and an unconscious Matt to worry about.

Before the Ylissean had a chance to turn and rejoin the others, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye, moving in a way extremely similar to how Kayla had moved within the sand stream moments earlier. Reorienting herself to focus on the disturbance in greater detail, Grace managed to notice a second, nearly identical silhouette behind the raging sandstorm.

She drew her weapon, this time prepared to defend her friends lives. But this figure was different than the last; it simply walked forward, showing no hostility or ill intent. But Grace refused to let her guard down, not even for a moment.

The figure eventually came into view, and was as well-disguised as Kayla was. They wore a similar style of Ylissean leather, but this person's armor was colored an earthy brown and adorned with silver, rather than the flashy blue and gold of Kayla's traditional Ylissean colors. On their back was a greatsword eerily similar to the cultist's, and in their hand a silver bow, fashioned quite differently than the oddly ancient weapon that Kayla wielded.

Eventually, the doppelganger archer was no more than a foot in front of Grace. Nila, too, had made his way to her side, Ashen at the ready. But the new archer made no sudden movements, and made no attempt to draw their weapon.

Nila was the first to speak.

"Who…" he trailed off, trying to gather his thoughts, "Who are you?"

The archer refused to speak, instead drawing back their and lowering their bandana to reveal their face: an action that ultimately proved more powerful than words.

Her silvery hair laid over her shoulders exactly the same way that Kayla's did. Her deep gray eyes tore through Grace's soul the same way that Kayla's did. Even the definition of her face was the same as Kayla's.

The face that stared back at Grace and Nila was indistinguishable from Kayla's, save for a scar running across the bridge of her nose and down her right eye. And her face held no malice, only understanding.

"Hello," the ranger said in a voice eerily similar to Kayla's, apart from a far more gentle tone, "My name is Katrina. I see you've met my sister."

– – –

Grace stood alongside the other twelve members of her group over a shallow grave, the outline of Dominic's body and hammer slightly visible underneath the veil of sand covering him. Everyone struggled to find words to say in his honor.

Matt was the first to break the tension.

"There are no words that I can use that would do Dominic any justice," he said solemnly, "Because none of us knew him well enough to judge his character. But today I learned that he was brave. He helped us rescue Jae when he could have easily turned away and saved his own life. He has taught us all a lesson in valor that I will not soon forget."

The wyvern lord then turned to Jae, who was quietly standing at his side.

"Do you want to say a few words?"

The manakete nodded, and took a cautious step towards Dominic's shallow grave. He knelt down, placing his small hand in the center of the mass.

"You made me my headpiece," Jae said, his voice nearly a whisper as tears welled up underneath his eyes, "I didn't know you well, but you were a friend. Just like everyone else is Abnorun was. Rest well…"

Jae lifted his hand away, the imprint of his hand still remaining on the burial mound. Even as the winds blew around the group, the handprint yet remained. The manakete wiped his tears away and retreated behind Matt, hugging his waist tightly. The larger man placed a hand upon the manakete's shoulder for reassurance.

Jae was not the only one to offer Dominic a gift to send him off into the afterlife. Chris, too, knelt down beside the shallow grave, and retrieved a small wooden box from the inside of his robes. The dark mage opened up a small hole in the sand aside Dominic's corpse, burying the box aside him. He then swept sand over the gift, and stepped away without another word.

Katrina—who stood next to Grace—gazed regretfully at the corpse's final resting place. She tossed two gold coins atop the mound, presumably as passage into the afterlife. She gave the myrmidon a glance before pulling her to the side to speak privately.

"I apologize for all the pain my sister has caused you and your companions," the silver archer sighed, "Too many have died from her hand. If I could have intervened sooner, I would have never allowed her to take your friend Dominic away from you."

"She killed my mother," Grace said without prelude, an action that proved jarring for the newcomer, "And I'll never forgive her for that."

Katrina's expression became even more guilt-ridden than it had before as she turned to the Ylissean myrmidon at her side.

"I… I'm sorry to hear that. Truly. If I could have done something to stop her, I would have. But she's always a step ahead of me, no matter what measures I take to corner her."

The way that Katrina phrased her statement grabbed Grace's attention quickly. Even if it would pain the new arrival to recount, she had to know more.

"Always a step ahead?" Grace asked, "What do you mean by that?"

Katrina's expression became distant and forlorn in an instant. She averted her gaze slightly, pursing her lips as she mustered the courage to speak.

"I've spent nearly two years tracking her," she said, making no effort to hide the dejection in her voice. Whether it was because Kayla was her sister or she was disappointed in herself, Grace couldn't determine. "Hunting her, even. Ever since she joined the Sons of Naga she has become extremely brutal. She is nothing like the gentle sister I held dear in my youth."

"Two years…" Grace rolled the idea of 'two years' over her tongue. Katrina wasn't the only person who was on a personal journey for two years.

Just then, a horrible thought popped into Grace's mind. She did her best to hide the churning feelings of anger threatening to seep through her skin and to the surface of her disposition.

"Mind if I ask something of a personal question?" the myrmidon inquired.

"Not at all."

"Where did the two of you live before Kayla became a Daughter? And what sort of work did you do?"

Katrina clearly looked taken aback by Grace's question, which didn't come as much of a surprise to the Ylissean myrmidon. But even if this was an uncalled for invasion of privacy, Grace had to know the truth.

"My, you weren't jesting when you said it was personal… But I suppose there's no harm in telling you, considering that time has come and gone."

Katrina breathed in deeply, gathering her thoughts about her earlier life. Judging from the deeply-gouged scars upon her face, she had clearly been through hell and back again in such a short period of time.

Just like Grace had.

"In any case," the ranger continued, "the two of us shared an apartment in the inner city of Ylisstol. There was never enough money to go around so the two of us joined the royal guard to help make ends meet. It wasn't long after that Kayla got swept up in the cult. I don't know if she had some sort of grudge against Plegians that caused her to join and act the way she does now, but I suppose I may never know."

And in so few words, Katrina made Grace's entire world crumble on top of her, whether or not the ranger realized it. Two people with the same face, one of them responsible for her mother's death… It had to be Kayla, didn't it?

…Didn't it?

Katrina must have seen some expression of shock or dumbfoundedness upon Grace's face, since she tilted her head slightly with a look of concern.

"Are you alright?" she asked, "I didn't say something to upset you, did I?"

Katrina's words grounded Grace, drawing her back to the conversation. Her surprise and distrust quickly melted into calm reassurance, but even she felt like her transition of emotions was unnatural.

"No, no," she insisted, "Of course not. I just thought I remembered something."

"Hmm…" Katrina pondered, unsure whether or not she could believe Grace's statement. Eventually she just shrugged, giving her the benefit of the doubt. "Very well, then. It was a pleasure to meet you, but I think it is nearly time to introduce myself to the others."

Katrina extended a hand, which Grace accepted less-than eagerly. Without another word, or even a second glance, the silver ranger turned and walked back towards the others, who were still paying their respects to Dominic's final resting place.

Grace watched Katrina go, unable to take her eyes off of the newcomer. She just couldn't get the thought out of her head that she _might_ have shaken hands with her mother's murderer. The Ylissean kept trying to tell herself that Kayla—the more violent of the two—was responsible, but the fact that they shared faces save for a few details just kept nagging at her.

One thing was for sure, though. If she decided to stay, Grace would be sure to keep an eye on her. Whichever twin was responsible for her mother's death would not be allowed to live.

* * *

Nila paid little attention to the conversation between the newly-encountered Katrina and the more familiar Matt, who was still nursing his head after Kayla's greatsword had nearly flattened his nose.

_"Apparently,"_ Nila recalled the azure-armored rider had told him earlier, _"Healing staves can fix a broken nose and cracked skull any day of the week, but they can't fix a headache. Ooh, that smarts…"_

But the person that Nila was watching was Grace, who was standing several paces out into the windy desert, holding the Levin Sword she had shown him earlier in the day. The Plegian couldn't figure out exactly what was bothering her, but her distancing herself from the others meant that she probably didn't want to be disturbed. And Nila wasn't one to linger where he didn't belong.

Still, though, it was difficult for Nila to remain unconcerned for his friend's sake.

And the Plegian simply couldn't get Dominic out of his mind. He hadn't known the blacksmith, but Nila felt partly responsible for the unfortunate end that he met at the end of Kayla's bow. If he was to be in charge of the lives of all those allied with the Justice Brigade, he would have to be wiser than ever with how he handled his tactics.

And at the same time, Nila felt disgusted that he only thought of Dominic has a warning for things to come. He was a man who had hopes and aspirations. It was a shame that Nila would never get to know the man that the blacksmith worked day and night to be.

After a while, Nila shoved his thoughts of Grace and the departed Dominic to the side. There was nothing he could do about any of that now, and Dominic would have time to be properly mourned and remembered on their journey away from this foul place. Instead, Nila opted to return his focus Matt and Katrina's conversation.

"Where do all of you plan to go?" the ranger inquired, "Because I could certainly appreciate an escort back into Ylisse. I'm determined to track down my sister. She's getting sloppy."

"Sloppy?" Matt balked with a short laugh, "If your sister's _sloppy_ is nearly caving in my forehead, I'd be doomed to chase after her!"

"She could have easily tilted her sword ninety degrees to either direction and severed the top of your skull from the rest of your head. I still don't understand why she didn't, to be honest."

"Yeesh, you don't mince words, do you? But y'know what? I kinda like that."

Their friendly exchange continued on, but Nila found the conversation was soon drowned out by his own thoughts. Seeing an identical copy of the person that had nearly ended his life twice was unsettling, to say the least. But the way she carried herself—and her scars—did very well to differentiate herself from her malicious sister.

But Nila knew for sure that Other Nila would have a field day with this topic regardless when he found himself alone. That was certainly an area that the tactician didn't wish to dwell on for longer than he needed to. If Katrina was willing to act like a different person, who was he to treat her like someone she tried to disassociate herself with?

Nila stopped himself, returning his focus to the conversation at hand. He really had to stop losing focus with things immediately in front of him. First the fascination with his arm, and then the ballista bolt…

_"You're doing it again,"_ he thought, mentally chastising himself, _"Stop doing that."_

"All that said," Matt concluded, "I'd be happy to have you along. But the one problem I have is the Autumn Queen's safety. We can't exactly bring her into the heart of Ylisse. It'd be a death sentence."

"You won't need to worry about that," an unexpected voice broke in, drawing the attention of Nila, Matt, and Katrina, "Because I plan on returning home."

None other than Queen Meliora was approaching the three, Iris following close behind her. Even in the light desert sandstorm, her gilded armored dress managed to shine brilliantly.

Oddly enough, Nila found that he managed to be the first to speak, despite his unfocused disposition.

"M-my queen," he stammered, once again intimidated by her royal presence, "Grimafell is a nearly a day's journey away on pegasus. You can't expect to walk all that way in the desert heat and sand!"

"Of course not," the queen chided, brushing off Nila's statement entirely, "As we speak, someone is on their way to fetch me."

Meliora's statement managed to catch Nila completely off guard. He stuttered uselessly for a moment before managing to speak an utterly confused, "Huh? But… how?"

"Now, I may not be the best with strategy, but I always have someone who does the majority of the thinking for me in regards to that subject."

As if the heavens themselves responded to Meliora's statement, the light sandstorm enveloping the area opened to reveal a jet black pegasus adorned with gilded armor emblazoned with a Mark of Grima. Its feathers seemed to glow with luminosity as it gracefully floated down from the sky, coming to rest behind the Autumn Queen. Meliora didn't even turn around to acknowledge the beast's arrival.

But the pegasus did not come alone. Sitting atop the obsidian pegasus was a black-haired man who appeared to be around Nila's age, dressed in violet and black garments that could only be described as similar to Chon'Sin vestments. Gold Eyes of Grima ran along the man's sleeves, marking him as none other than Plegian royalty.

The straight-haired man dismounted the pegasus, sending a cloud of sand into the air, which was swiftly whisked away by the light winds. He said nothing, allowing his queen to speak first.

"This is the royal Plegian strategist," she announced, before turning to the strategist and acknowledging his arrival, "You may introduce yourself now, Rey'mi."

Rey'mi placed a fist in the palm of his opposite hand, bowing low to his queen.

"Yes, milady."

After giving his respects to Meliora, the main stood up straight and addressed Nila's group, which had since congregated together after his and the pegasus' arrival.

"You may call me Rey'mi. I serve the Autumn Queen and Plegia. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

He then repeated the gesture he used to greet Meliora, albeit with far less exaggeration. Feeling slightly flustered and unsure how to return his greeting, Nila merely copied Rey'mi's bow.

"And to you as well," he responded in the same polite tone he used to address Queen Meliora. Rey'mi and Nila soon returned to upright standing positions their attention focused on each other. Nila soon recognized that the strategist was studying him, waiting for him to continue the conversation. He abided, "You certainly have a knack for strategy. How were you able to predict an outcome like this?"

"I predicted nothing," he responded in a slightly bored tone, "The only thing I was certain of The Sons of Naga's activity in Plegia has decreased noticeably during this month."

"It has?"

"Yes. There have only been two confirmed assaults on Plegian settlements recently besides this one. One of them being against you, if memory serves."

Nila winced as he recalled memories from that attack. It was nothing like the scale of the assault on Abnorun, but seeing those thirteen figures carrying the banner of Ylisse as they marched upon his home was a memory that he would never be able to forget.

But Nila was still confused about something. He asked, "But what exactly does that entail?"

The strategist hummed chastisingly, clearly unimpressed with Nila's lack of knowledge.

"It was evident that they were setting a trap to be sprung," he explained as if such information was common knowledge, "So it only made sense to disarm it."

Disarming a trap with the most valuable member of Plegian royal society? It was simply unthinkable! But this Chon'sinian man was supposedly overseeing the affairs of the entire Plegian military…

Nila had to understand more.

"If you knew that it was dangerous to bring Queen Meliora here," he asked, "then why did you allow this? She could have been killed or captured!"

"I am well aware that it was very dangerous to send the Autumn Queen directly into the heart of danger," Rey'mi responded, "but her presence was the only way that we could force them to strike. I must thank you for being present, however, for she may not have lived without your intervention."

Nila opened his mouth to speak, but Rey'mi held a hand up for silence. Apparently the royal strategist was fond of lengthy explanations.

"But I will admit that this is hardly my finest work. I did not account for usage of siege weaponry, and it ultimately cost the lives of many good Abnorun citizens and the city itself. I do not expect this to atone for my failure, but the Royal Plegian Army is tearing through their offense with the precision of a surgical knife as we speak. The Sons of Naga will not bother us for quite some time."

Nila was absolutely floored. He had been completely blindsided by the Sons' strike while being in the heart of the invasion, while this man was able to accurately predict and diffuse the attack from miles away. He had taken an incredible risk, yet his strategy proved to have earned Plegia something that Nila would have never been able to accomplish.

_"I need his strategical books, and I need them now," _Nila thought, letting his mind wander briefly. But in the time he allowed his mind to be freed of responsibility, Rey'mi had already redirected his attention to the Autumn Queen.

"I have brought Orpheus for you, milady. I do apologize that we could not bring him with us, but he would have been an obvious target for the Sons."

"Don't apologize, Rei," Meliora said, cracking a soft smile at the admittedly stiff strategist. The pet name proved to be enough to shatter Rey'mi's businesslike facade, as he noticeably flinched and broke out in a vibrantly red blush. "I know a thing or two about those tomes that you always have your nose stuck in."

"M-my queen," he stammered, "you know how I feel about you calling me that! Please refrain from doing so in front of others, at least!"

"Frankly, I can do whatever I want. You're in no position to make demands of me."

"R-right…"

Nila felt guilty thinking about it, but he was generally enjoying watching Rey'mi and Meliora interact. Iris seemed to be getting a charge out of the situation as well, since she was quite visibly trying to refrain from giggling. From their individual attitudes, there was no doubt that the two knew exactly how to make the other tick.

But the strategist's deflated visage quickly reoriented itself as he resumed a more professional manner of speaking.

"Have you finished your preparations?" he asked, helping Meliora ascend onto Orpheus' saddle, soon joining her upon the pegasus' back.

"All but one."

She then turned back towards the group, somehow managing to lock eyes with both Nila and Matt simultaneously.

"You two," she called, "Might I have a word?"

The wyvern master and the tactician nodded and stepped forward concurrently.

"Of course," Matt responded.

"Excellent. As I have said, I will be returning to Grimafell alongside Rey'mi. I have a duty to lead my people and my armies. But I would like for you to bring Iris with you."

The black-dressed hierophant stepped forward, bearing a clear orb only slightly larger than a staff focus in both of her hands. Iris closed her eyes and smiled warmly.

"I'd be happy to accompany you, if you'd have me."

"Are you sure?" Matt asked, "You have a responsibility to Queen Meliora, don't you?"

Much to Nila's surprise, Iris actually giggled at Matt's words. Matt seemed to be quite taken aback as well.

"You're mistaken," the hierophant asserted, "I have a duty to Plegia, not just its queen. And I am well aware that the only way to end the threat against us is to pry up its roots."

As Matt listened to Iris' words, a small smile started playing upon his lips. Nila couldn't tell for certain, but Matt seemed like he was relieved as well.

"If you're up for it," he said, his smile quickly returning to a face of neutrality, "I don't see why not."

"Thank you. I'll do everything I can to aid you all."

Iris walked over to Matt and Nila, and took a position at Nila's side. The tactician couldn't help but marvel at the clear, spherical object she held in her hands. It seemed to shine of its own accord, which was odd considering staff orbs needed to be fueled by the staff-user's internal locus of magical power before they became functional.

"I see you've noticed Iris' orb," Meliora acknowledged, quickly drawing the Plegian's attention to her, "That magical focus is called an Oracle. It is something of Rey'mi's own design, and it will allow for us to stay in contact with you as you move about Ylisse. We have one of our own."

The queen reached into Orpheus' saddlebag, retrieving a sphere identical to Iris'. She focused for a moment, and the interior of the Oracle quickly adopted a glowing, brilliant light. After a moment, the light produced a staggeringly accurate, yet somewhat distorted image of Iris and the desert surrounding her.

"Anyone with magical potential should be able to use the Oracle," the queen continued, "Just hold the focus in your hands, while focusing your energy into its core. It will then link with ours, and we will be able to speak to each other."

Nila plucked the focus from Iris' hands, marveling at how his image appeared on Meliora's Oracle as he passed in front of it. And this was Rey'mi's creation…? Simply remarkable.

But one question still lingered in Nila's mind. After returning the Oracle to Iris, he inquired, "Where will your forces be during this?"

Meliora was quiet for a moment, quickly adopting a forlorn expression. The queen didn't even have to answer Nila's question for him to know what she was about to say.

"I regret that I won't be able to provide you with the full might of the Plegian Royal Army," she said sorrowfully, "because doing so would essentially be a declaration of war against Ylisstol. Normally I wouldn't be against such an act, but internal affairs are… well, less-than stellar at the moment."

"You mean the Sons, right?

Meliora nodded.

"The Sons are quite active in our nation, and it takes many more of my resources than I am comfortable with to deal with them. They've killed so many innocent Plegians, Fellblood or not. And each one pains me."

"I share your pain," Nila added, "It's hard to not think of every Fellblood like my extended family, even if I don't know them well."

A brief bout of silence fell upon the group, as none were sure of where exactly to take the conversation from Nila's tangent. Fortunately Matt stepped in, breaking his vigil of quiet observation, to redirect the conversation.

"Is there anything you can do for us?" the azure rider asked, "As of now, we're only thirteen strong. Hardly enough to take on the Sons as a whole."

"You will be far from alone," the Autumn Queen responded, "Rey'mi will be with you every step of the way on anything you are unsure about. Don't hesitate to contact him.

Before any could respond to Meliora's words, Rey'mi tapped the queen on the shoulder, whispering something into her ear. After a moment, the Autumn Queen turned back to the two men with a bow.

"I pray for your travels to be safe. You two are performing Plegia a great service, and for that I thank you."

And with a light kick to Orpheus' side, the pegasus reared up on his hind legs, ascending into the sand-clouded sky. Nila stared at the hole the beast made in the sky, watching it slowly cover itself back up. Matt must have noticed Nila's slightly lost-looking face, as he placed a shoulder upon the slightly shorter tactician's shoulder.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he inquired, concern tinging his voice, "You've been through a lot today, and I know the toll it must be taking on you. We can take you back home if you don't want to get involved in this."

Nila was quiet for a moment, and he returned his gaze to where the queen and her tactician had ascended into the heavens.

"I've come far enough to know that there's no turning back," Nila responded, turning his head to look Matt square in the eye, "I've seen exactly what Ylisse is doing to both my fellow Plegians and my extended, Fellblooded family. And I'm not about to allow them to get away without facing justice."

The wyvern lord smiled as he ruffled the slightly shorter tactician's hair with his armored hand.

"Just like a Justice Brigadier would say."

* * *

The ranger's eyes were filled with nothing but pure white as she experienced the familiar sensation of warping over an immense distance. Combined with the delirium from the two massive puncture wounds so generously donated by her sister, she felt weightless as her still body traveled through the void.

Just as quickly as the sensation began, the blinding light disappeared, leaving her in the hall of a very familiar building. Verdant green tapestries hung from the high-vaulted ceilings, visible only in dim torchlight. In the darkness, the mauve carpeting leading through the hall appeared pitch black. Her journey across space had taken longer than she had expected, as the sun was just dipping down underneath the forests to the west.

"Welcome home, _Grand Ranger_ Kayla," a glaringly sarcastic voice boomed from the opposite end of the anteroom. The voice's owner sat upon a large throne at the end of the hall, what little sunlight that reached through the windows illuminating the gilded seat. In one hand he held a regal staff, and in the other a red-hilted sword that glowed with a soft light in the setting sun's dim radiance. Around his neck was a deep, pine green cape, its surface cloaked by darkness. Shadows covered his face as well, but the ranger knew all-too well who he was.

"My lord," she responded, pulling herself into a kneeling position while keeping her eyes low.

"How goes the battle of Abnorun? Surely you've killed that bastard Queen and her little friends as I have instructed, no? Or did this mission prove too much of a challenge for you?" The sarcasm dripping from the man's lips gave away that he was already aware of the outcome of the events in the Plegian town.

"No. The Queen got away with the Fellblood I failed to kill a few days ago."

"Ah, of course. Honestly, what did I expect? You and the band of fine soldiers I entrusted to you couldn't kill a holed-away rat and a couple of washed-up mercenaries. Pathetic. But hey! At least you destroyed the town! That's something."

"Sir, I can—"

"I don't want to hear any of your excuses, dammit!" the man roared, banging the hilt of his staff on the gray-tiled floor. "I want results. Is that too much to ask?"

The shadowed man gave a heavy sigh, burying his head in the palm of his left hand. Eventually, he returned his gaze to the wounded ranger, a bored expression upon his face as he cupped his chin in his hand.

"You must have news, surely? The rat didn't end up damaging your brain, did he?"

Kayla shook her head, her bloodstained hair tumbling over her face.

"No, he didn't lay a hand on me. This is my sister's work."

Kayla's lord leaned back in his throne, covering his face with his hand.

"You mean to say that dog Katrina found you?" he inquired, breathing heavily out of his nose in frustration, "I thought you said you were covering your tracks better."

"It won't happen again, I assure you. And these wounds are nothing. But I have information for you. Much information."

"Oh? Spit it out, then. The sooner you spin me your tale, the sooner you can get to a healer. That blood isn't going to slow down for anyone."

"Right. I've discovered that there are two, now."

"Two of whom?" the man asked, leaning forward in his throne.

"Two Fellblood. One goes by the name of Nila, the other Christopher. The latter we thought we had exterminated ages ago, the former is the slippery snake that lived on the west coast of Plegia."

The shadowed figure did not respond, as if he was waiting for Kayla to say something else. The ranger expected that he would have something to say about more Fellblood wandering around, but the man showed no reaction.

"The manakete we captured is also gone," she continued, "We still have not determined whether or not the people who freed him are with the Fellblood."

The throned man showed little interest with the notion before asking a further question.

"And the chameleon?"

"We still have him. We captured him a ways out from the city before we encountered the young manakete. He should be arriving to one of our outposts within the night. I will make sure that he is delivered to your chambers personally."

"Some good news for once. A delightful change of pace. But is that all?" the man upon the throne spat, "Because my patience is wearing thin."

"No. One more thing: Morris has been near-fatally wounded. He's been stabbed and burned, but he's managed to stay alive so far. He's under treatment in our Southtown outpost. We're not sure if he's going to make it through the night."

"Ah, Morris. The _grand-legionnaire_, no? How did he meet this fate? _Who _did this to him?!" the shadowed figure's once calm voice cracked apart as the reality of Morris' condition sunk in. He was frantic, and he was enraged.

"Very few lived to tell the tale of battle," Kayla explained, attempting to keep her tone as neutral as possible, "But one of our conscripts reported that a white-armored pegasus knight and a red-clad thief engaged him in battle. The former had unmistakable white hair and striking red eyes…"

"Wait a moment," the man said, his near-invisible eyes widening in recognition, "White hair and red eyes, eh? I think know _just_ the bitch you're talking about."

He rose from his throne, his gilded armor clattering as he descended the steps onto the floor below. Kayla limped to his side, taking a position alongside him in front of a war-planning board. The wooden surface was scattered with miniature portraits, each of people that the ranger couldn't recognize. One brown-haired woman with several streaks of white in her hair caught Kayla's attention, mostly because her garments very similar to the ones that the Fellblood Nila wore. The woman's portrait was emblazoned with a large red _X_ that covered most of her face.

But that woman's picture meant nothing to the man. He held the scarlet hilt of his white-metal sword backwards before plunging it into a portrait that had been casually tossed into the table's corner, almost as if an afterthought. The person depicted in the image's head poked out from under the blade. He had a head of short-cropped white hair, a full trimmed beard to match. His vibrant red eyes stared back at the ranger with an air of malice.

"Jacques de Argus, formerly known as General Argus of the Royal Ylissean Army," the man growled, pulling his blade from the board and returning it to its rightful place in its scabbard, "This pathetic excuse for an Ylissean was a thorn in my side for decades. We have fortunately dealt with him not too long ago, as well as his equally-troublesome wife, but I never knew that his daughter was still scurrying around and causing trouble. Or flying, rather."

The shadowed man turned to Kayla, his face finally being plunged into a ray of sunlight. His long, blue hair shone radiantly, as he brushed a hand across his thin, similarly colored beard. His ice-blue eyes dug into Kayla's very soul.

"You have a new mission, my dear. Find Chastity de Argus and end her miserable existence. And I expect those two demonspawn stuck to her side gutted and buried along with her. _One_ of them must have the stone."

The man leaned back, returning his face to the shadows. With a wave of his hand, a side door in the hallway opened, allowing bright light to flood the room.

"Keep in mind that I do not usually give second chances," he said, walking slowly back towards the gilded throne, his verdant green cape dragging behind him, "Much less a third or fourth."

* * *

**Caesar's Journal**

Forewarning

_If you are reading this journal, I am most likely dead. My name is King Caesar, the current king of Plegia, and I have seen things I do not wish to remember. After witnessing the end of Grima, I have found myself intrigued with the potential of the Outrealm Gate. Several visits to several realities have yielded magical knowledge far beyond what those of us on this plane have been able to master. Since my visits to the Gate, I have been plagued with terrible, terrible visions… I have seen the future. I have seen the past. I have seen the fates of infinite worlds. The end is nigh, and there is little you or I can do to stop it…_

–_Ouhjqjd–_

– – –

Page One

_J qsbz gps zpv, sfbefs pg uijt kpvsobm._

_Csbwf uif mboet tdbssfe cz uif esbhpo't gmbnft._

– – –

Page Two

_Ecp aqw hggn kv?_

_Ecp aqw ugg kv?_

_Ecp aqw dtgcvjg kv?_

_Kv eqogu._

– – –

The contents of the other thirteen pages are hidden behind an unintelligible assortment of letters. You can't read any further without your head hurting…

Perhaps you should return to it later after giving it some time.

* * *

**Roster**

**No.001 Nila**

A resident of Plegia and descendent of one of the famous time travelers of Ylissean past, Morgan. Although weakly, he carries the same blood of Grima used to revive the fell dragon generations ago. He was a tactician for the Plegian Mercenaries in the past, who eventually dissolved under his leadership.

The most likely fall asleep while reading.

Born on December 20th, age 24.

Class: Tactician (**Sword**|**Anima**, **Dark** from Shadowgift)

**No.002 Matthew**

The leader of a group of fighters known as the Justice Brigade, who prefers the name Matt. He brought the group together after he and Hunter fled a devastated city in Western Ferox, one of the first Western settlements destroyed by the marauding nation. His confident personality is what the Justice Brigade's foundation stands upon, yet he harbors doubts of his own sometimes.

The one who slouches the most.

Born on January 2nd, age 21.

Class: Wyvern Lord (**Axe**|Lance)

**No.003 Hunter**

A Feroxian duelist with a deadly mastery of swordplay. He has lived in not one, but two villages that have been razed by magic-wielding bandits or conquesting Easterners. The loss of his sister invoked a keen sense of justice within him and a fear of magic and fire.

The least fond of parlor tricks.

Born on January 25th, age 22.

Class: Swordmaster (**Sword**)

**No.004 Chastity**

An Ylissean Falcon Knight—who prefers to go by Chast—with pale white skin and red eyes. Her albinism runs in the family, being shared with her father. She had high hopes of joining the Ylissean cavalry, yet was advised to pursue a separate line of work by her father. She instead took up work as a mercenary, and eventually met Matt after he saved her life.

The one with the scariest glare.

Born on October 29th, age 17.

Class: Falcon Knight (**Lance**|**Staff**)

**No.005 Marius**

A peculiar fighter hailing from Stormguard. Initially striving to be a scholar, Marius studied magic diligently throughout his childhood. However, he shifted priorities when bands of rogue dark mages attacked the settlement. With his interesting combination of swords, Anima, and throwing axes, he joined the enthusiastic Justice Brigade to put his skills to the test.

The one with the worst sense of humor.

Born on April 1st, age 20.

Class: Dread Fighter (**Sword**|**Axe**|**Anima**)

**No.006 Valkus**

A Valmese quartermaster who tolerates nonsense of no kind. After a false claim of fraudulence, Valkus chartered a ship to the Ylissean continent. She joined the Justice Brigade after falling to them in a battle to mete out justice for herself and others. How this beauty's personality meshes with the jovial brigade is a mystery.

The most likely to enjoy taking inventory.

Born on March 25th, age 28.

Class: General (**Lance**|Axe)

**No.007 ?**

…

**No.008 Lester**

A seasoned veteran and guardian of Ylissean royalty. Lester began his training for knighthood at the young age of seven. He failed to protect the lord he was sworn to from a powerful East Feroxian warlord. He formed the Ylissean Vanguard in an attempt right the mistakes that he brought upon the halidom.

The longest bather.

Born on May 15th, age 20.

Class: Paladin (**Sword**|**Lance**)

**No.009 Desmond**

One of the rare taguel who bounced back from the brink of extinction. Desmond is one of the few taguel who have refused to their cultural roots of warren life. He trained under a man who fought against the Gray Claw, a taguel purist society that threatened his home. He refuses to use his beaststone.

The one with the biggest rock collection.

Born on August 8th, age 19.

Class: Taguel Fighter (**Axe**|Beaststone)

**No.010 Samuel**

An Ylissean priest of minor nobility. His rigorous education led him to priesthood, where he trained in the Holy Church of Naga to heal his allies. After being denied entry to the Ylissean military, he was recruited by Lester to heal for the Ylissean Vanguard.

The best at insulting others.

Born on July 14th, age 21.

Class: Scholar (**Staff**|**Anima**)

**No.011 Brooks**

A mage of Ylissean background that has traveled the world across. With his traveling mage caravan, he saw the shores of Valm, the peaks of both Feroxes, the sands of Plegia, and the rolling hills of Ylisse. Longing to be greater than an entertainer, he left his caravan to create his own adventures.

The one with dirt on absolutely everyone.

Born on March 10th, age 25.

Class: Mage (**Anima**)

**No.012 Esthara**

An Ylissean tactician in training. She wields the legendary weapon Mercurius, one of the three regalia of old, given to her as a gift by her professor. Studying under the legendary tactician and professor Kairos, she aims to one day match the intellectual might of the most famous tacticians in history.

The lightest sleeper.

Born on November 19, age 19.

Class: Strategist (**Sword**)

**No.013 Christopher**

A masked prodigy dark mage who shortens his name to Chris. His skill comes from necessity, having lived his most of his life around bandits and thieves. He trained under a Plegian outlaw sorcerer, partaking in both assassinations and thefts. After being conned into murdering his parents, he took up his father's mask and fled to Abnorun, a Plegian border town. He shares a proficiency in shadow with Nila.

The giddiest laugher.

Born on October 4th, age 16.

Class: Dark Mage (**Dark**|**Anima**, **Dark** enhanced from Shadowgift)

**No.014 Grace**

A nimble and powerful Ylissean myrmidon. Her father and older sister served as fighters for the Plegian Mercenaries years ago, a fateful mission taking her father's life and causing her sister to vanish. At the age of only fifteen, she picked up the pieces of her shattered life and became a wanderer with her mother. Finding herself a mercenary after her mother's recent death, she will invoke any means necessary to stay on her feet.

The most sentimental.

Born on September 19, age 19.

Class: Myrmidon (**Sword**)

**No.015 Iris**

The royal hierophant of the Plegian Court. She and the Autumn Queen Meliora have been great friends for many years, alongside the parents of both Nila and Grace. Désirée, Nila's mother, worked alongside Iris to put Meliora in power twenty years ago. The six friends have shared many an adventure, but Iris is definitely hiding something…

The one with her eyes on the horizon.

Born on February 15, age 43.

Class: Hierophant (**Dark**|**Anima**|**Staff**|**Rapier**)

**No.016 Bell**

A Valmese fighter whose travels have landed him in Abnorun. Previously an orphan, he found himself running with the worst types of crowds. He traveled to Ylisse to escape his past, but much of his experiences are unknown. Even his real name is shrouded in mystery.

The most fiercely protective.

Born on September 30th, age 28.

Class: Fighter (**Axe**)

***New* No.017 Ulysses**

The proclaimed 'Scourge of Abnorun.' Unsatisfied with the poor family he was forced to grow up with, the stealthy man turned to robbing Abnorun's wealthiest for years. He has conned, cheated, and stolen his way to the top of the Abnorun food chain, and is feared for good reason. Now an outcast, he hopes to turn over a new leaf in the eyes of the Justice Brigade, especially Chast.

The most likely to cry when worked up.

Born on February 13th, age 27.

Class: Thief (**Dagger**|**Bow**)

**No.018 Jae**

A half-manakete hailing from Plegia, as well as being the protector entity of Abnorun. Compared to most manaketes making their way in the world, Jae is remarkably young. His brother and two sisters often worry about him, but this soft-spoken half-manakete is more than capable of taking care of himself.

The most absentminded.

Born on June 9th, age 163.

Class: Manakete (**Dragonstone**)

***New* No.019 Katrina**

A Ylissean archer, and identical twin sibling of the Grand Ranger Kayla. She has always resented the path Kayla chose to take with the Sons of Naga, and has been pursuing her estranged sister in hopes of ending her path of torment. Her personality much more calm than her sister's, but she shares a slight abrasiveness with her.

The most resentful.

Born on July 20th, age 21.

Class: Ranger (**Bow**|**Greatsword**)

* * *

**Guests**

**Meliora *Left party***

The noble and pragmatic Autumn Queen of Plegia. Most of her past is shrouded in mystery, even from her closest remaining friend, Iris. She feels uncomfortable in violent situations, but always strives for her people to see a brighter tomorrow.

The most chilling presence.

Born on September 7th, age 41.

Class: Queen (**Sword**)

**Dom *Left party***

_Perished in Abnorun_

* * *

**Next in Fire Emblem: Foreboding Horizons…**

"…Colin, you're awake! It's about time, old friend."

"Arena Ferox beckons. I just hope it's not too late…"

"Professor Kairos, guide my hand…"

**Chapter 8: The Shattered City**


	11. Lore Scroll 1: Fellblood

Nila,

I've been giving our conversation in the Abnorun Palace some more thought. Since we were so heavily bound by time, there were many details I neglected to mention about your heritage. That is why I have decided to write out a brief report pertaining to everything I know about the Fellblood. I hope that this may answer any questions about your heritage that you have been dwelling upon.

* * *

The Fellblood are a subspecies of humans—and theoretically manaketes and taguel—genetically bred to carry the blood of the Fell Dragon, Grima. The methods used to create the Fellblood are quite similar to how Ylissean royalty maintain a pure, Exalted bloodline.

Fell Blood is similar to the Holy Blood of ages far past. However, Holy Blood has been so thoroughly diluted that every living person has a little of each kind, allowing usage of the thirteen holy weapons.

Fell Blood and Exalted Blood both differ from Holy blood, however, in origin. Exalted Blood was a blessing from Naga to the first Exalt, allowing usage of the Falchion. It is unknown when exactly Fell Blood was bestowed upon the first vessel of Grima, but it must have occurred around one-thousand years ago, parallel to the rise of Exalted Blood.

The first vessel of Grima was eventually killed, but his bloodline managed to pass on. Until recently, the Fellblood have kept themselves hidden away, out of the public eye. King Validar and his ancestors were responsible for reuniting the still-living Fellblood to create the second vessel of Grima, who we know today as Robin. While Robin's Fell Blood may have been the strongest in the world, many other Fellblood existed during his time. Notably, the time-traveling Morgan, Lady Aversa, and King Validar. It is from these four people that most Fellblood of today are descended from.

All Fellblood have an affinity with Dark magic, being able to cast Dark spells without necessarily being affiliated with the dark arts. This ability is known as Shadowgift. Some Fellblood of the past have intentionally suppressed this ability to hide themselves from the public eye.

As well as Shadowgift, most Fellblood have a Mark of Grima, similar to the Brand of the Exalt branded into each member of the Ylissean Royal Family. This Mark appears on the body from birth, usually glowing with a soft violet color. The Mark of Grima is also known to react to high concentrations of dark energy, giving the Fellblood anything from a mild shock in the presence of traditional dark spells to temporarily paralyzing motor function in certain limbs when exposed to Fell energy, most commonly encountered during an Expiration. While this may seem detrimental at first, this ability gives Fellblood an increased resistance to Dark magic.

However, if the Mark is located close to the head, exposure to high concentrations of dark energy or physical contact with a dark spell is known to cause minor brain damage. Typical symptoms include a lack of focus and unhealthy fixation on minor details. Since your Mark is on your neck, it is paramount that you limit your exposure to Fell energy from Expirations or otherwise unless absolutely necessary.

The most notable ability of the Fellblood, however, is to call upon an Expiration. This spell does not require a spellbook to cast, and is instead drawn from within the innate dark energy of the Fellblood. This ability was first utilized by a human when Robin called upon it to destroy Grima permanently. To cast, the Fellblood must redirect the flow of dark energy within them to their Mark of Grima, and then release the spell through either hand. Casting this spell is extremely dangerous to those with diluted Fell Blood—read: every living Fellblood, myself included—causing the extreme loss of motor control that I have mentioned previously. The Fellblood will have to wait until motor functions return to normal. Staff spells are ineffective during this time period.

The Fellblood and the Exaltedblood both have key weaknesses as a result of their birthright. If a weapon blessed by Naga strikes a Fellblood, it will create a wound that does not clot naturally. As a result, a wound contracted through a blessed weapon is guaranteed to be fatal if grave enough. Fellblood are also wounded to a greater degree from the Light of Naga spell (and theoretically Light magic, but none is known to exist), while Exaltedblood cannot withstand Dark spells and Expiration very well.

But despite everything I have written above, it is important that you remember that you are as human as any other person, regardless of bloodline.

* * *

This is everything that I know about the Fellblood. There may be more details yet to be discovered, and there may be some that I am overlooking. If you have any questions that you would like to discuss in person, you know where to find me.

Regards,

Christopher


	12. Lore Scroll 2: Outrealm Gate

_Excerpt from _Awakening: A Historical Recount of the Second Plegia-Ylissian War, The Valmese Invasion, and the Campaign on Grima. _From chapter, "Outrealms"._

* * *

The Outrealm Gate is an ancient gateway located on an island twenty leagues south of the Ylissean continent's southernmost shoreline. It is unknown what time period it was constructed in or the civilization that was responsible for building it, but it has been confirmed to be well over several millennia old.

The Gate worked by puncturing a hole in a weak segment of the fabric of space-time. During the centuries that it was operational, time flowed nearly six milliseconds slower whilst the space around the Gate was slightly jarred and distorted. It is unknown why this phenomenon occurred, nor can anyone say the Gate caused the temporal anomaly or vice versa.

Stepping through the punctured hole the gate provided would lead the traveler into a "behind the curtain" pocket dimension, from which several thousand alternate realities could be accessed. Traveling backwards one thousand years in time was as simple as walking several hundred yards, while accessing an entirely different—yet similar—dimension was as easy as stepping through another doorway inside the Gate.

Existence of the temporal anomaly also allowed for Naga to send Lady Lucina and her twelve companions through time to alter the course of history. Some reports have also stated that Lord Inigo, Lord Owain, and Lady Severa disappeared through the Outrealm Gate shortly after the fall of Grima, but historians are generally mixed on this subject.

Through rigorous testing, prolonged exposure to the space-time anomaly was known to cause vivid hallucinations, feelings of dread, and paranoia. After many Outrealm-travelers were discovered to have gone insane, travel to the island was barred save for royalty and scientific researchers.

Around two hundred years ago, the Outrealm Gate suddenly ceased to function, and time began to flow normally on the island. The reason for the disappearance of the anomaly baffled researchers up until recently. It was soon discovered that a spatial shift had occurred, moving the location of the anomaly to a widely-disputed location. It is speculated that the rift may reside from as close as above the ocean northwest of the island to as far away as the continent of Valm. Theoretically, it would be possible to restore access to the Outrealms by building another gate around the new location of the anomaly, but the methods used in constructing the original have yet to be reproduced.

The site of the original gate had been deemed safe and tourism is once again allowed. The Ylissean village of Southtown currently manages all travel to and from the Outrealm Isles, overseen by Ylissean Exalt Spes and Ylisstol royalty.

* * *

_The chapter continues on for several pages, with plenty of graphs and mind-numbing statistics. There's certainly nothing of interest beyond this point._


	13. 8: The Shattered City

**Welcome back for FE:FH Chapter 8! I've got a few announcements to make before you get into the chapter.**

**The first, and biggest, is that I'm planning on doing is doing complete rewrites for the Exordium through Chapter 2, while doing more minor dialogue edits for Chapter 3. I've already edited some plot points in them already, but the changes I'm planning on making are going to be a lot bigger.**

**The reason being is because I've developed characters in certain directions that don't fit their speaking patterns and behavior in past chapters (Samuel is a good example of this, especially in this chapter. Also honorable mentions for Nila and Chastity) and the writing itself needs a lot of a touch-up. Seriously, it's like **_**really dated.**_ **Go look. Plotwise, I don't anticipate much will change, but if anything does I'll let you all know on /r/fefh as per usual.**

**I'm not planning on making these changes until we see a story shift similar to what we saw at the end of Chapter 7, and I'll let you know when I'm taking a break from further chapters to touch up the old ones.**

**Secondly, you may have noticed that I added a "Book One" chapter to the very front of the story. This is because I've decided to make FE:FH into a two-part series, each book containing two arcs. Originally, it was supposed to be a one part, four arc story, but a major shift in what I want for the latter half of the story mandated a change.**

**I'm not going to announce the name of Book Two until we get to Arc 2 of Book One (which might be some time from now!), but just keep that information in the back of your heads for the time being.**

**Anyway, I'll bet I've talked for long enough. Let's reunite with the Ylissean Vanguard in Chapter 8: The Shattered City! And we're going to finally fill in Mysterious #7 in the character roster, so watch out for that!**

– **Aspen**

* * *

Matt poured a stream of dark, honey-colored tea into a small, ceramic cup and pushed it towards the visibly nervous manakete in front of him. Aside from his obvious fear, however, Matt was astounded at how quickly Jae had recovered from his wounds. Even his clothing looked brand new with Iris' help.

Only one day had passed since the fateful afternoon in the city of Abnorun. Dom was their only tragedy, and everyone was in as high of spirits as they could possibly be, considering the circumstances. Nila was working on their next move as well, which gave Matt time to finally sit down with Jae and hear his story.

With shaking hands, Jae picked up the teacup and took a curious sip before deeming it either safe enough or good enough for him to drink. The manakete downed the liquid in one strong gulp before placing the empty cup on the collapsible wooden table in front of him.

The tea seemed to help calm Jae's nerves, as his trembling had diminished slightly and his wide green eyes looked a little more relaxed than before. With the manakete calmed down, Matt decided that it would be the proper time to speak.

"Jae," the wyvern lord said as warmly as he could, "I know it's been difficult for you for the past month, and I know I haven't given you enough time to get the rest that you deserve. But I need you to tell me everything you can about your capture. It is very, very important."

As Matt had half-expected, Jae was quiet for quite some time. He anxiously rubbed his long green hair, averting his gaze from Matt's. He turned back after a moment, but still remained silent. He poured himself another cup of tea, downing the warm drink even quicker than he did the first.

But Jae knew that he couldn't remain quiet forever. After setting the ceramic cup aside, he finally opened his mouth for the first time since Dom's makeshift funeral in the desert sands the day before.

"Do I have to?" he asked desperately.

"Unfortunately, yes. I know you don't want to, but Nila and I need whatever information you have. It's vital to us taking them down."

Now he had really done it. Whether it was what Matt said or his tone of voice, but he only managed to drive the young manakete even further away. He started trembling even more than before, nearly dropping the teapot as he attempted to pour himself another cup.

Matt held out his hands to help steady the pot, but he only caused Jae to startle. The manakete dropped the pot, which fell to the sandy floor of the tent. Jae's gaze quickly shifted to the fallen, yet fortunately unbroken teapot, and back to Matt, his expression more fearful than ever.

Putting on as kind of a face he could muster, the wyvern lord calmly spoke, "It's okay, Jae. Really."

Jae closed his eyes and quickly bowed his head low. His breaths came rapidly and Matt saw what were unmistakably tears running down his face from the corners of his eyes.

Matt mentally kicked himself. Of course it wouldn't be a good idea to force a scared young manakete to talk only _one day_ after he had been tortured for nearly an entire month. And his friend had been shot in the head, to boot. Just before Matt could tell Jae it would be okay for him to leave, he heard soft, barely noticeable words escape from his mouth.

"…I'm different, you know…" Jae whispered without moving his face up to meet Matt's gaze. But despite Jae's fear and inability to look into Matt's eyes, words were progress. And even against his own common sense, Matt wanted to push those words as far as Jae could possibly muster.

It was something that Matt hated about himself. He tried as hard as he could to be a leader, but his brash nature was something he could never really suppress. It was unprofessional and immature, but it was part of who Matt was.

"Different how?" he urged, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible. But Jae wasn't stupid. From what Ulysses had told him, Jae was 163 years old. He was wise beyond his days in the eyes of mortals, but he was still prone to fear that only a young child could experience. Truly the odd experience of being a manakete, half-born or not.

"The S-Sons of Naga only like Divine D-Dragons," Jae stammered, "I… I'm not a Divine Dragon. I-I'm a Fire Dragon. I d-don't f-fit in t-t-the world they w-want to see…"

Matt rose from his seat opposite to Jae, quickly striding over to the sobbing manakete, wrapping his small body in a tight hug. He didn't fight Matt's embrace, instead pushing his face into the wyvern rider's chest.

"T-t-they… they want me dead! I'm so s-scared and I don't know w-what to do!"

"Shh… You're okay now. All of us are here to protect you, okay? You won't need to worry about anyone taking you away ever again."

Matt allowed Jae to cry into his chest, tightly squeezing the young manakete in hopes of assuring him that he would be safe around him. All the while, Matt was frustrated the lengths that he went to in order to get the information out of him. It was important to know that at least part of the Sons of Naga's goals were to eradicate all non-Divine Dragons and Fellblood, but Jae surely would have let him know at some other point in time.

Matt felt sick as he held Jae's small, crying body. He felt sick as Jae pulled away and asked to return to his tent. And he felt sick as the manakete walked away into the sand, his black waist-cape trailing behind him.

Burying his face into his hands, Matt let out a curse. If he was going to lead a group larger than just the Justice Brigade, he would have to get his act together. A group couldn't function under intimidation and force. It simply wasn't him.

But first, Nila would want to know what Jae had to say. It pained him to leave the manakete alone, but Matt's first and foremost duty was still to end the Sons of Naga. Jae's feelings would have to wait.

* * *

_The black void surrounding the red-caped man appeared to give way as it gently lowered him into a velvet-cushioned seat. Darkness still surrounded him, but instead of the nothingness he faced for what seemed like hours before, he now found himself face-to-face with a dark-suited person whose face was obstructed with a skull-shaped masquerade mask. Though their mouth was hidden by their mask, the contours of a smile were just visible on the edges of their face._

_Stretched between the two was a chessboard checkered with pastel black and white colors. It floated in the air on its own accord, as no part of the object came close to touching the ground. And upon closer inspection, it appeared as if no ground even existed beneath his feet._

_The masked person respectfully raised an arm to him._

"Please," _he said in an odd, androgynously-pitched voice, _"You may make the first move, Colin."

_Colin stared at the board, taking in the details of each of the chess pieces. Truth be told, Colin didn't even know how to play. He had seen Muiris and Carolyn play many times before, but he couldn't even begin to assign movement patterns to any of the pieces._

"_I'm not much of a chess player," Colin admitted, "I left games of the mind to my brother and sister. I speak with my axe."_

_The masked person appeared briefly disappointed before he gave a simple shrug and sigh. With a snap of his fingers, the board disappeared into thin air._

"Oh, that's alright," _the person across from him stated flatly, _"I suppose there are plenty of other games to play to while away the time. What do you think you'd be interested in?"

"_How about an explanation? You can start with where we are and why I'm here."_

_Disappointment immediately returned to the visible edges black-suited person's face._

"You're no fun at all, are you? I suppose there is little harm in getting down to brass tacks, but I was hoping that you'd make a more interesting guest."

_The masked person snapped their fingers a second time, but the chess board did not reappear. Instead, Colin saw himself, stripped down to nothing but his smallclothes, floating in the black expanse of space that made up the room around them. He reached out to touch the image, but his hand phased right through to the other side._

_The masked person barely acknowledged Colin's expression of curiosity before turning his attention to the floating Colin between the two._

"This is you," _they said, _"Or rather your body."

"_Meaning what? I'm dead?"_

_The masked person was silent for quite some time. The person's completely black eyes were all that were visible beneath their mask, and they bored directly into Colin's soul._

_The moment seemed to pass quickly, and the person spoke once again._

"No. You are not dead. You have come close many times, but something has always prevented the inevitable. This, however, is the closest you have come to my domain yet. I thought I would pluck you from the ether to speak to you personally."

"_So that would make you Death, then?"_

_The person across from him was quiet for another moment. If Colin had to guess, they were probably pursing their lips as they chose the right words to speak._

"I do not have names like people of the mortal world," they eventually explained, "I am simply an embodiment of one aspect of the mortal spirit. I may not even exist. This is your mind, after all."

"_This is my mind? I thought you said we were very close to your domain."_

"Yes, I did say that," _the person across from him stated flatly. Either he didn't understand the reason Colin pointed out that contradiction, or it wasn't a contradiction to begin with…_

_The coy expression on the outlines of their face was infuriating. Colin hated when he was confronted with someone who—_

"I am allowed to make whatever face I wish," _the masked person interrupted, the coyness still refusing to leave his expression,_ "You have little place in dictating my actions."

"_You can read my thoughts?" Colin balked, "How—"_

"Like I said, it's your mind. But I'm afraid the time we have scheduled together is beginning to come to an end. You're about to return to the ether until your body decides whether or not it wants to live."

_The masked person floated from his velvet-cushioned chair and into the dark void surrounding the two. The corners of his face once again revealed a smile as he raised his hand into a wave._

"We may speak again soon. Or not, depending on how well you take care of yourself. But we will meet again. Such is the course of life."

"_Wait! I still have questions!"_

"I can give you two answers, but not to the questions you'd have been asking. Don't let rocks fall on you again and don't look down."

_The masked person, chairs, and ghostly apparition of Colin retreated behind veils of darkness before the room Colin had been sitting in seemed to remember it wasn't supported by a floor. Colin began to fall, a terrible scream ripping at the sides of his throat as he tumbled into the endless, consuming abyss below._

* * *

Bathed in early morning light of the frigid Feroxian tundra, Colin shot awake, his left hand clutching his now-bare chest tightly. His breaths came quickly as he awakened from his nightmare.

The details of what had happened the previous day were still quite fuzzy, but his encounter with the black suited, masked person was as crisp as if it had just happened moments ago. Had he dreamt of another terrible event? Or perhaps he had experienced something terrible? Try as he may, Colin simply couldn't remember anything that had happened before the surreal room.

He forced himself to think back to what had happened the previous night. It wasn't long until what he thought were memories started to arise. They were patchy, but at least they were something.

Colin remembered the siege… running through the Stormguard streets with his siblings… the commerce building collapsing on top of him… Despite how realistic the memories were, they were accompanied by a hazy, dreamlike atmosphere that made Colin dizzy to even think about.

Had all of that just been a terrible, terrible dream? Just like his encounter with the masked person?

The Feroxian glanced around, expecting himself to be in his bed, just like every morning prior. But what he saw was a far cry from his usual homely surroundings. He found himself in what appeared to be a covered wagon, surrounded by an absolutely ridiculous amount of wolf pelts and furs—so many that Colin was quite literally buried underneath them.

But as inane as they appeared when stored in surplus, they proved to be quite warm. Warm enough that Colin didn't notice that he was only wearing his smallclothes, exactly like how his image had appeared during his encounter with the suited person. In his earlier nightmare, though, he remembered wearing his usual red cape, light leather armor, and metal shoulderpiece, but said items were nowhere to be seen. Hauteclere was also missing.

Lifting himself from the pile of furs, Colin dug around in search of his missing armor, or even some ordinary clothes. Not even the thoroughest of searches, however, yielded anything more than a few empty bottles of vulnerary and shattered healing orbs.

The half-naked Feroxian sighed, resigned to whatever fate he may have landed himself in. Perhaps he had been drinking heavily last night? His drunken misadventures had landed him in some very strange places before, but none as odd as this one proved to be.

He had no hangover, though… What exactly was going on?

Colin decided that it wouldn't do any good for him to wallow in unknowing and uncertainty. The Feroxian rose from the furs, shutting his eyes stretching his incredibly stiff arms above his head. A stiff, cold gust brushed against Colin's skin, but his Feroxian fortitude brushed off the chill as if it was nothing more than a gentle spring breeze.

As Colin's spine lengthened with numerous satisfying pops, the odd feeling that someone was watching him arose within him. When he opened his eyes, he was surprised to find himself face to face with a young, pale girl who appeared to be around his age. Judging by her expression, the girl was just as surprised to see him as he was her.

The two stared at each other for a very long time. Neither moved a muscle. Her expressive gray eyes were amusingly analytical and absolutely terrified at the same time. And her two long, blonde braids resting in front of her shoulders shifted gently in the wind, the only disturbance of her statuelike stillness.

Colin soon found his gaze running briefly across the girl's body, more out of curiosity than perverseness. He imagined that under any other circumstances she would be upset, or at the very least annoyed. Considering his own state of undress, however, she probably wouldn't be one to complain.

Her heavy red cloak covered a simple, white underblouse, brown, stitched cloth pants, and light boots of a similar shade and color. The girl did not react to his wandering eyes, as she was still paralyzed in what seemed to be mutual embarrassment and surprise.

As quickly as the add moment had arisen between the two, it ended when the blonde-haired girl pulled her red hood over her eyes, her pale skin reddening to the exact same shade as her cloak.

"I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry!" she shrieked, her words stumbling over themselves, "IthoughtyouwerestillunconsciousIneverexpectedthatyouwereawakeit'sbeensolong—"

"R-relax, relax," Colin stammered, doing his best to reassure the startled girl, "You didn't know."

His words seemed to abate her embarrassment a little, at least, as she turned back to him. Her hood and hands still shielded her eyes, and her scarlet blush still reddened her face to an admittedly comical extent.

"I-I'm going to wait outside the wagon," the red-cloaked girl sputtered, "Your clothes and armor are in the metal box at the back. Put them on. Please."

Without another word, the blonde girl uncovered her eyes and disappeared around the left corner of the wagon, her gaze affixed straight down the entire way.

Colin sat in silence for a moment, still trying to process exactly what had happened. He certainly hadn't been expecting anyone to show up so suddenly. And a girl he hadn't seen before at that!

Sober Colin briefly contemplated what exactly Drunk Colin had consumed the night before, a tinge of jealousy arising when he realized he may never know what sort of magical ale had passed through his body. An ale that gave him vivid hallucinations of a siege and a dark room, all while placing him in some stranger's covered wagon was an ale that Colin desperately wished to try again.

But daylight was burning and he had to answer for his drunken debauchery. Colin stood, working his way through the sea of furs and to the metal footlocker the blonde girl had mentioned earlier. He eventually found it underneath another pile of furs, no less, and flipped the lid open.

The first thing Colin noticed wasn't the state of his armor and clothing. Rather, the Feroxian found himself recoiling at the distinct, cutting smell of acrid smoke. As soon as he caught wind of the scent, a horrible vision passed through his mind.

The Stormguard skyline burning… the ballista bolt nearly impaling Muiris before he vaporized it with a Thunder spell… the merchant building collapsing on top of him…

No. That was a nightmare. Colin had burned things when drunk before! The time when he was twelve and stole Muiris' spellbook surfaced into his consciousness briefly. He managed to stealthily lift the tome from his brother's pouch and produce enough sparks to reduce the dinner table to a smouldering pile of ash. His father never let him hear the end of it. After he was done being angry, he started parading him around, saying that he was taking after his side of the family, at least in regards to drinking.

Colin could have easily done that again, right? Maybe he burned down the tavern with the magical hallucination liquor, too? Yeah, that was it. That's definitely what happened. Maybe the blonde-haired girl was the tavernkeeper's daughter, and he had been kidnapped so he could answer for his crimes personally…

The Feroxian sighed, cutting off his train of thought before he managed to think himself into a rut. He turned his attention back to his armor, plucking each piece out from the chest and examining them thoroughly. If anything could reveal what he had been up to the previous night, it would be his armor.

The first item he pulled out were his leather boots, reinforced with gray metal plating around the vamp and the shaft. Besides a healthy layer of soot and grit and the metal being stained an ugly black color in some places, they looked as normal as ever.

Next came his white cloth pants, which were torn badly around the leggings. The waistline was slightly burned as well, a fate that his black sleeveless undershirt and leather torso armor shared. His cloth shirt looked fine otherwise, while his armor had several deep gashes that appeared to have come from some sort of bladed weapon.

The final item he pulled from the footlocker was his gray-metal shoulderpiece, affixed to his red cape. The shoulder armor appeared to be in the same condition as the metal plating on his boots, managing to escape with only a black dye and a covering of ash. It also appeared to have been hacked into by a sword or axe, since there were scars covering the piece that Colin did not remember. His cape, however, was another story. The end that hung closest to the ground was far more torn than it had ever been before, and it was burned that same terrifying black color in more areas than he could count.

Whatever Colin had been up to the night before, it had to have been quite intense. Cuts from pocketknives weren't unheard of in tavern brawls, but the damage his armor faced was far, _far_ more grave than a belligerent, drunken Feroxian could have provided.

But there was an issue that was staring Colin in the face, one that had not hit him until after he had looked upon his armor. The fact that Colin's armor had even been _used_ did not bode well for him. When Colin went drinking, he rarely brought his armor out. He usually preferred to wear his townclothes unless he was planning on going to a bad part of town.

Which meant… how much of his nightmare was true?

If anyone would be able to give him a straight answer, it would be that blonde, red-cloaked girl he had talked to earlier. Colin had almost forgot about her presence. She would probably be worried about how long he was taking to get dressed. Or would she think it was normal? Women do take their time preparing for a night out, if Carolyn was anyone to judge by.

Not wanting to cause another scene between the two of them, Colin quickly pulled himself into his armor. It was irritating to be walking around smelling of smoke, but these clothes were all he had at the moment. It would have to suffice for now.

– – –

A moment later, Colin was fully dressed and and sitting on the edge of the covered wagon he had been sleeping in. He pushed himself off the edge and onto the snowy ground, only to find himself falling flat on his face. He was startled to find that his legs had buckled from underneath him, as if he hadn't been standing for days. And the blonde girl from earlier must have noticed, because she was quickly at his side, pulling him up by the shoulders.

"Are you okay?" she fretted, "You need to be careful! You've been unconscious for a long time and your body isn't ready to be thrown around like that yet!"

Colin had tuned her words out as soon as his face had lifted from the snow, however. With as little as a quick glance around, Colin knew exactly where he was. The cart he had been sleeping in wasn't as far away as he had originally thought. It was close to home. Very, very, close to home.

He was at the bottom of the hill on the west side of town that he vaguely remembered gazing out over the night before. Another vision flashed briefly through his mind, this time one of him standing atop the hill, gazing out over countless Eastern siege weapons. Some threw fire, others shot cannonfire, but they were undoubtedly bent on destruction.

Colin's legs soon rose up and started climbing the hill, almost as if they were moving on their own accord. The red-cloaked girl trailed behind him, desperately urging him back. But he didn't care. This was something that he had to see for himself.

Climbing the hill was an arduous task, but his stubbornness managed to overpower the blinding pain in his joints. The Feroxian soon found himself standing atop the hill he saw in his vision, staring at a caved-in section of wall that Colin vaguely remembered being an open hole the night before. His heart fell into his stomach, but his legs kept moving. He had to know what exactly had happened to Stormguard while he was out cold.

A long, painful walk around Stormguard's outer perimeter accompanied by the girl's protesting eventually led him to the town's southern entrance. Colin rounded the corner, only to be rooted to the spot when the town—or what little was left of it—came into view.

What Colin saw was not the proud, sturdy city that had been standing the prior day. What he saw was nothing more than a collection of burnt ruins that vaguely resembled the shape of the southern end of town. Seeing it in such a pathetic, dilapidated state was incredibly surreal.

But Colin knew it to be true, however. Everything that happened the day before suddenly came rushing back: ushering defenseless citizens to safety, fighting Eastern foot soldiers, running through the burning city with his siblings, the argument he and Muiris had, and getting crushed underneath a million bricks of stone. Everything immediately rose to the forefront of his memory, playing across his mind as if it was actually happening.

Colin fell to his knees. He dug his hands into the layer of ashes coating the ground. Their texture and smell… Everything about them matched the ashes that had been baked into his very armor.

There was no way Colin could deny it now. Stormguard was gone. There was nothing left.

The cloaked girl's complaints had long since ended, granting Colin the silence he needed to take in what was in front of him. Eventually, her voice broke the quiet stillness that had befallen the ruins of the town.

"I suppose I don't need to explain what happened, then. I was going to wait until later, but perhaps it was better to have played out this way."

Colin didn't answer for quite some time. He knelt in place, his gaze sturdily affixed on what remained of the southern quarter of Stormguard.

"This is the town I grew up in," he stated without prelude, "The town I made my first memories. Where I had my first steps, my first words, and even my first tavern brawl. To think that everything I've ever known… that everything I've ever _loved _is gone… my mind simply can't process it. It can't."

"Colin…"

Colin paid her voice little attention. He found it odd that the stranger knew his name, but he wasn't really in the mood to question anything right now. No. Everything was far too real to have doubts.

He had to see the rest of the town. Maybe someone survived, or only part of the town managed to be destroyed by the East!

There had to be something left. There had to.

Colin felt himself rising to his feet, almost involuntarily. His feet pushed him forward, each step sending a small cloud of black ash slightly into the air. He briefly wondered how many people were a part of the ashes he walked upon before shoving the thought from his mind.

They had to have survived. They had to.

Before long, Colin found himself in the center of town. He hadn't gone to this specific part of the town during the siege to avoid exposing his head to cannonfire, but it had been one of his favorite places in Stormguard. The calming central fountain alongside the bustling shops and streetlife could always take his mind off of a terrible day.

What Colin saw barely resembled the town center that he remembered, just like the southern side of town. The fountain was still there, but a stray cannonball that was now at rest in its basin had torn its central spire into several large pieces. Many of the larger mercantile buildings had collapsed, and the smaller market stalls had been reduced to little more than splinters.

Colin sat on the edge of the fountain basin, taking in the cold, harsh reality that had befallen his hometown. He watched all the buildings surrounding him, remembering each and every one of them in their prime. Everything was so prosperous before! Seeing it in such a state now was painful beyond words.

But there was no question about anything anymore. Stormguard, and everyone who lived in it, could be nothing other than dead. His family, his friends, everyone. No one could have survived as massive of an attack as this one.

Wait. His family!

There was one more place Colin had to see for himself. It was a place that he tried so hard to get away from before, but now it was the only thing he wanted to see.

Colin needed to see his house. No matter its state, he knew that it would be the only place he could find closure in.

His home was on the far northern side of town, nestled away in the military district. His father had been a commanding officer of the admittedly pathetic Western militia, and it was customary for serving military of higher ranking to be allowed to live closer to their place of work. Among Feroxians, such a privilege was a tremendous honor.

What folly it was. All these honors and privileges, only for them to be meaningless against the East. They were much better equipped than the West could ever be. And now they were after the Arena. How long could they hold? Would they eventually fall?

Thoughts like these occupied Colin's mind as he passed through the center of town and into the military district. The state of the district Colin had come to know so well over the earliest years of his life was in no better shape than the town center or the mercantile district.

Most of the latticed stone pillars that were once home to large braziers had been toppled by cannonfire. Building windows were shattered, and ballista bolts peppered the once sturdy stone walls. The road itself appeared to be paved with the ashes that plagued the town.

The destruction in this district was a cut above what the rest of the town had experienced, and that was no accident. Someone wanted this specific area of the town to burn.

Colin walked to the corner of the residential area where he normally turned to get to his home. When he turned at the mouth of the street, he felt his eyes being drawn upward rather than forward.

He had expected to see the brass gate that normally guarded the residential area from thieves, but he was mortified to find that it was completely gone. In its place was the fallen remains of one of the two watchtowers that stood adjacent to the gate.

A pile of stood bricks stood in between Colin and his home. He felt his mind trying to draw him back, to protect him from the horrors he would inevitably witness on the other side. But he had come this far. He wasn't about to turn back now.

Brick by brick, Colin climbed what was left of the watchtower. Given his poor physical state, it was an almost impossible task. But the drive he had to finally get the answers he was looking for managed to push him over to the other side.

Tumbling slightly as he descended the opposite side of the fallen tower, Colin gazed out over the expanse in front of him. Of all the places he had seen in the ruins of Stormguard, the street he once called home appeared the most alien to him.

Not only had the buildings and roads sustained damage that he had come to expect at this point, but there was evidence that battles between people had taken place here. Colin remembered fighting Easterners outside the city, but he didn't think any were willing to risk their necks entering a city under active siege. It was suicide.

Yet the broken swords and bodies claimed the contrary. Unlike the other places he had set foot, there were actual bodies—badly burned at that—lying in plain sight. Colin claimed to know everyone in Stormguard, but when he knelt down to inspect the body, their face was unrecognizable.

Bile rose into the back of Colin's throat. Just thinking that this corpse could have been someone he knew or loved sent a terrible chill down his spine. He felt his fists clenching, almost automatically.

The East had gone too far this time.

Standing up, Colin set his sights further down the demolished road. His home was not far from here.

– – –

A frigid wind blew through the cold, dead streets of Stormguard as Colin stood on the doorstep of his home. It wasn't a terribly large building, as those were reserved for the highest-ranking military officials, but it was sturdy, warm, and homely. All the things that a home needed to be.

The building he stood before was none of those things. The building itself was mostly intact, but it showed heavy signs of fire damage. The windows had shattered, and the solid wooden door that once served as a barrier between the cold Feroxian midwinter and the inside of his home was oddly missing.

Someone had been here. A door doesn't just go missing in the middle of a siege. And judging from the thick layer of ashes that Colin stepped in as he crossed through the doorway, the charred splinters, and the lone, singed doorkoob that had rolled into the corner of the foyer, it probably met its end at the hands of a powerful Feroxian mage's fire spell. And though it pained him, it explained the charred bodies Colin had seen lining the streets.

Both Regna Feroxes had very few mages at their disposal, let alone powerful ones. Muiris was the only Feroxian mage that Colin knew personally. For such a person to have personally paid his home a visit was odd, without a doubt.

What had happened here was no accident, no byproduct of warfare. This was murder.

Colin fell to his knees once again. His hands cupped the cold cinders that were scattered across the stone floor as the beginnings of tears formed in the corners of his eyes. What was the point of coming here? What did Colin expect to find? It's not like he'd just find his family and friends huddled up together in the back corners of his home, just waiting for him to come and find them.

It was hopeless. Everything was hopeless. The only city Colin had a chance to get to know in his short, pitiful existence was this one. And now it was gone.

And Colin was still here.

The Feroxian heard footsteps, soft, padding footsteps, appear behind him. If it was an Easterner, he didn't care. Let them come and end his torment. It wasn't like he had Hauteclere to protect him right now, either.

But what Colin felt next wasn't the cold sting of a dagger or the blinding pain of a fire spell. Rather, it was a soft, gentle embrace. Someone had wrapped their arms around his chest and held tightly, as if their hug would take away the pain and suffering he was feeling right now.

"I'm here, Colin."

It was the red-cloaked girl's voice. All this time, she had been shadowing him as he lived through the most painful experience of his life. She had come along with him every step of the way. What was he supposed to feel about that? Happiness? Anger? No emotions rose to meet the call of the situation. It was as if he had grown just as cold and lifeless as the city around him.

"Everything is going to be okay," she continued, "I'm here now. We're all here now."

"No," Colin replied, his voice choked with emotion, "Everything isn't going to be okay. I had one chance to defend my home and I screwed it up. I spent all this time underneath a godsdamned building, just waiting for someone to save me. Had I played my cards differently, I could have stopped this before it started. Maybe those people dead in the streets would still be alive right now."

"You couldn't have possibly fought them back on your own. They have a terrifying army with more soldiers than we could ever begin to count. You did what you could!"

"What I did wasn't enough!" Colin quickly turned his head to meet the cloaked stranger's. He didn't care if his eyes were red from tears, or even if he had a damn ocean on his face. If he could stand to be weak before, he could definitely be weak now.

"Did you not see the burned bodies in the street? The watchtower that's nothing more than a pile of rock now? _Someone_ could have stopped those things from happening, even if it meant their life. That someone should be me."

"What good would have come from throwing your life away? You have a second chance now! Lester, Brooks, and the rest of us are on your side. We can help you get revenge!"

"Lester, huh?" Colin found himself glad to have a distraction from the death and destruction around him. Recognizing his name meant a change in subject. He could forget about his failures, if only for a minute or two.

He turned away from her so she wouldn't have to see his tears as he said, "That's a name I haven't heard in a long time. What's he doing here?"

"He came with others from Ylisstol to aid the West after they heard what happened in Stormguard," the girl responded, "They found me on the roadside. It was quite the coincidence. I was looking for him, too."

"That's a hell of a response time. For something that happened only last night, it's surprising that they're already here."

The girl was quiet for a moment. When Colin realized she wasn't responding he turned to her, and found her averting her gaze from him as she shifted uncomfortably in her boots.

After a moment and some silent urging from Colin, the girl managed to squeak out, "You mean you don't know how much time has passed, then…?"

"Time?" Colin asked, his voice quickly building with distraught, "What do you mean, _time_?"

The girl lifted her gaze to meet Colin's, her gray eyes full of pity and empathy.

"Colin, it's been seven days since Stormguard was attacked," she explained, her voice barely rising over that of a whisper, "It took a day for Lester and the others to respond, and a few more for them to actually get here. It's been three days since we found you, just barely alive underneath a pile of rock. We managed to nurse you back to health, but…"

The girl trailed off, despite looking like she had more on her mind.

Colin sat rooted to the spot. Seven days… seven whole days he spent unconscious, and who knows how many of them under that building. If Colin felt weak before, he felt no stronger than the pile of ash he was sitting in now. How could he have been so helpless for so long?

Colin needed to forget this ever happened, and fast. And he knew just the remedy.

"I need alcohol," he said, "Something to dull the pain."

"I'd give you our lager," Esthara replied with a regretful look, "But Desmond drank all of it last night. Besides, drinking yourself into a rut wouldn't do anyone any good. Especially with bandits in the area."

"I suppose you're right. Who are you, by the way? You knew my name through Lester, I believe?"

"You're right. And it's Esthara."

– – –

Esthara and Colin sat in silence, surrounded by the ruins of his home. Fortunately, Esthara seemed to understand how much he was suffering, and stayed with him for however long he spent in his destroyed foyer. Colin couldn't even begin to imagine how much time had passed.

Regardless of how much time had passed, Colin eventually decided that staying in his house forever wouldn't do him any good. There were people that had to answer for this atrocity. He felt better by stating this, too. Giving himself a goal was good. It would help get his mind off what he was leaving behind.

Colin stood, cursing as his very body revolted against his actions. Esthara was quick to place herself at his side, taking his left arm in her hands and throwing it over her shoulders.

Walking was still a struggle for Colin, even with Esthara's help. For someone who prided himself on the strength of his heart and body, he felt helpless that both were weaker than ever. His heart had left with his home and city, and his muscles were still sickly from their lack of use.

The Feroxian led Esthara to where the northern gate of town stood. It would be faster than trying to go through the entire city and back to where they started. But as they reached where the gate once stood, all they found was a pile of wooden splinters and rubble. Even the entrance and outer wall wasn't safe from the East's onslaught.

They had no choice now but to backtrack through the entire city, reliving each and every horror for a second time. Esthara kept the pace moving quickly, probably because she knew that Colin wouldn't want to experience his pain twicefold.

The two arrived at the southern gate much quicker than Colin expected. The city almost seemed smaller on the way back, as if the damage wasn't limited to only its height and structural integrity. It was remarkable how somewhere so safe and secure became a shell of what it once was in such little time. One day it was here, the next it was gone. The seven days that had actually passed meant little.

They turned after passing the threshold of the gate, retracing their steps from earlier. Their previous footsteps, however, had vanished in the thick layer of snow. Had it snowed while they were in the city?

"So," Esthara said, guiding Colin's steps, "You know Lester. He told me he knew you, but not how you met. Mind filling me in?"

Colin was more than welcoming of any conversation that would direct his attention away from the state of his hometown. He responded, "Lester came around pretty often with the Blackwoods. He started training in knighthood when he was seven, the same age we met. I was five."

"Seven years old? You're joking!"

"I wish I was. That man is brave, but he's a little bit too dedicated. Gods know how many times he tried to shoo away any rats or girls that dared get close to me when he was around."

Esthara laughed, Colin feeling every tiny vibration that rose from her chest with each laugh.

"Believe me, he tried to scare away a snow hare from the camp just yesterday! Something about eating the wagon's axles? At least he didn't try to scare off Desmond."

"Desmond?" That was the second time that name had come up today.

"Desmond. Our resident taguel. Didn't I mention him sometime earlier…?"

"You told me he enjoys his Western Lager. I think I'm already good friends with him, at least spiritually."

Esthara was quiet for a moment, and Colin felt her head turn away from him.

"If you manage to make friends with him," she muttered, "You'd already be a step ahead of me."

"Why's that?"

"No matter what I say or do to him, he never seems to want to talk to me. I'm not sure if I said something wrong…"

"I'm sure he just needs time to think about how he feels about you," Colin assured, "I know I'd be terrible at talking with women without a bottle of liquor."

"That's just the thing, though. Even when he was drunk he still refused to talk to me! He wouldn't even tell me why."

Colin stared blankly at Esthara, his mouth agape. Eventually, what she said had managed to sink in, and the Feroxian pulled the slightly shorter girl in for a side hug.

"I am so, so sorry," he said as comfortingly as he could, "Either that's a really big _you_ problem or a really big _him_ problem."

"I'm just trying to be as good of a leader as I can," Esthara sighed. Colin could tell that the words she said did not match what she was thinking. Even he, the most oblivious man in Regna Ferox, knew that Esthara was completely heartbroken. From the dejectedness in her voice to how she desperately wanted to know where she went wrong, her feelings were obvious.

"Hey, let's not think about Desmond for a minute," Colin said in an attempt to change the subject, "You have any more people that you'd want to tell me about before we get to camp?"

Esthara appeared to be thankful for the shift in subject. Her voice a tad happier, she replied, "Besides myself, there's Brooks and Samuel. Brooks is pretty nice, always with a story to tell. And Samuel is… is…"

Esthara immediately stopped, her face stricken with a look of horror.

"What's wrong?" Colin asked with fervor. Esthara turned to him, her eyes wide with equal parts fear and frustration.

"Godsdammit, I was supposed to bring you to Samuel as soon as you woke up. Between the city and you actually waking up, I completely forgot."

"And Samuel is…?"

Esthara sighed once again, disappointment in herself very obviously plaguing her expression.

"Samuel is your medic. And is he going to be very upset when he finds us…"

– – –

Not long after their discussion, the two hurried as quickly as a weakened Feroxian and accompanying Ylissean could move. They found themselves standing amongst the camp, which was standing proudly despite the heavy covering of snow and stiff chill that would send any Ylissean packing. It was a modest affair, being only a collection of three pale green tents and a central firepit. Colin had expected something more extravagant from the way Esthara had talked up her new companions, and he was honestly a little let down.

At least Samuel wasn't around yet. That was good, right?

Speaking of Samuel being missing, everyone else appeared to be gone as well. In the case of Desmond, it was to be expected. Drinking an entire bottle of Western Lager would have undoubtedly given him a hangover unmatched by most, which he was probably still nursing in his tent. For all four other members of Esthara's group, it was strange that they were all missing in such a small space.

The sudden sound of footsteps crunching through the thick layer of snow caught Colin's attention. He turned, discovering that a man with a thin, red beard and blue-trimmed white priest robes was the source of the noise. His blue eyes were piercing even from a distance, and he had what looked to be frustration upon his face.

After the man opened his mouth to speak, Colin immediately understood why.

"You!" he called, walking up to Colin and staring him directly in the face. He was thin and quite a bit shorter than Colin, but the Feroxian still felt intimidated by his presence.

"Do you understand how _stupid _it was of you to start walking around in the snow after waking from your coma? Why didn't you send for me?"

"Nice to meet you, too," Colin said dryly, "Name's Colin, by the way."

"Believe me, I know well who you are," the priest spat angrily, "I'm the one that's been making sure you didn't slip off into the realm of Death for the last three days! So don't you start jeopardizing my work."

Colin shuddered at the mention of Death. Either Samuel was aware of the place he had seen in his dream, or it was a complete coincidence.

The red-bearded man wasn't finished, however, as he turned his attention to Esthara with a scowl etched upon his face; it was possibly even more grave than the one he had thrown Colin's way.

"And you! What was the first thing I told you to do if he woke up?"

"…To come find you," Esthara stated dejectedly, "And believe me, I was going to! But Colin was insistent upon seeing the state of his home. I tried to stop him, I really did, but—"

"That's all well and good," the priest interrupted, "But you were gone for _three hours_. What was I supposed to think?"

"Three hours? We couldn't have been away for as long as that…"

Had three hours really passed while Colin and Esthara were in the shattered ruins of the town? He had noticed that time appeared to move slower up there, but he didn't actually think that such a large amount of time had faded away right under their noses.

The priest's accusatory glare and words soon grounded Colin's thoughts.

"For someone that's been running battle simulations in her head for the past three days," the bearded priest fumed, "I would think you'd have a better perception of the passage of time. You're supposed to be our leader!"

"I know, I'm just… I'm sorry, Samuel."

Huh. So this was Samuel. Colin wasn't really surprised, considering how Esthara said he would react. Seeing his anger in person disjointed even the unoptimistic outlook Esthara recounted to him earlier.

Just when the red-haired priest's frustration seemed like it was about to boil over, he simply drew in a deep breath and exhaled it out slowly. He looked upon Esthara once more, this time with a more neutral expression.

"It's… it's fine," he insisted, though his face still displayed a glaring annoyance, "Water under the bridge."

"I can come with you now, if you want," Colin said, "I don't see why not."

"I'd take you, but I have too much on my hands right now. I have more pressing news to give you two anyway. Esthata, Lester needs to see you. Both of you, I suppose."

"Lester?" Esthara inquired, "What for? And where is he, anyway?"

"Just over the hill that way," The priest pointed to the west, and Colin followed his gesture towards an area largely obstructed by a large snowbank. "A wyvern landed quite some time ago, with two passengers. He and Brooks should still be with them. And since you're the closest thing we have to a leader, it would be wise for you to speak with them."

"Thank you for telling me, Samuel. And seriously, I'm sorry for not getting Colin to you earlier. Time just got away from me."

"Forget about it. But I still want to see him after you finish up your business with them, even if it's only precautionary. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a hungover taguel to deal with."

With a grimace and a shudder, Samuel trudged off through the snow towards the southernmost tent in the encampment. Colin's eyes followed the red-bearded priest with a look of pity. Gods know how taguel handle their drink.

Esthara eventually gently shoved Colin's shoulder to capture his attention.

"Don't worry about the bunny," she said with a giggle, "He'll be fine. This isn't the first hangover I've seen him tangle with."

"Didn't you say that you only met him the other day? How much drink has he gone through?"

"He polished off all our mead and fell into a ditch the day we rescued you. And believe me, we had a _lot_ of mead."

Colin chuckled, remembering a time that he met a similar fate at the hands of the intoxicating, honeyed liquid.

"I seriously do not know why he doesn't get on better with you," Colin said, "He seems to act just like I do, except he's a taguel."

Esthara laughed again. Colin was pleased that what he said helped ease her stress, if only a little bit. But after their run-in with Samuel, Colin did not want to put the priest's request on the backburner.

"Let's not keep Lester waiting, alright?"

The Ylissean strategist nodded, and the two slowly made their way towards the snowbank, the frustrating pace once again thanks to Colin's weakened muscles. But the two eventually peaked over the hill's crest, quickly discovering the scene that Samuel had described moments ago.

The first thing that Colin noticed was the massive, green-armored black dragon that occupied far more space than the four humans standing next to it. As soon as Esthara and Colin started down the hill, the beast glanced towards them, its gaze inquisitive. Colin noticed that Esthara tensed up slightly as the beast exhaled a cloud of hot smoke through its nostrils. Even Colin himself felt slightly on edge in the wyvern's presence.

He had seen quite a few wyverns in his day, but none as large as the beast standing before them. But the wyvern soon appeared to grow bored of them, turning its gaze back towards the four other humans—three of which he couldn't recognize—accompanying it.

The wyvern wasn't the only one to notice the two descending the hillside, either. Stopping midsentence, the sole familiar man in a set of red trimmed gold armor turned to him, recognition flashing across his verdant green eyes almost immediately. A smile grew upon his clean shaven face as he spread his arms wide in greeting.

"Colin, you're awake!" the man called, "It's about time, old friend."

The armored man walked up to the Feroxian, clasping his shoulder.

"I know it's been some time since we last spoke, and you may not recognize me immediately. My name is Lester. It's delightful to see you again."

Colin could only blink in response. The gold-armored man before him was a far cry from the knight-in-training he had known during his intermittent visits to Stormguard. Instead of the young, short, and frail boy he had known, Colin was presented with a man who could not only topple him, but had a look in his eye that spoke of hundreds of battles. He couldn't help but feel a little intimidated.

"Lester?" he asked, trying his best to hide the nervousness in his voice, "Is that really you?"

The paladin gestured to the whole his body with his hands, his warm smile unabating.

"In the flesh. I suppose I look a little different than I did six years ago, no?"

Despite how hard Lester was trying to be good natured, Colin still couldn't help feeling on edge regardless. He had no idea how to interact with his old friend. What subjects could he approach? Which had become more sensitive with time?

Eventually, the Feroxian offered a neutral, "Yes," before averting his gaze from Lester's. But the paladin seemed unfazed by Colin's reaction, and continued speaking.

"Time and experience do often have ways of changing people, for better or for worse."

A heavy silence fell upon the group of six and their accompanying wyvern. The only sound that permeated the veil was Esthara's hushed interaction with the bespectacled, brown and white-haired man in a dark set of mage robes. He nodded at something the red-cloaked girl had said before starting up the hill and out of sight.

Just as the mage left, Lester continued speaking once again.

"As much as I'd like to get reacquainted with you," the paladin admitted, recapturing Colin's attention, "We have more pressing matters at hand. I wish we could have reunited under better circumstances. Truly."

Surprisingly, Colin found himself relieved at the notion. So much had happened to him in such a short period of time: coming to terms with the loss of his home and friends, the encounter with the black-suited, masked person from his dream, and accepting that he had been thrust forward in time an entire week.

Setting his sights on a task, no matter how small, would help him keep moving forward.

"That's alright," Colin assured, "I'm sure we'll have plenty of time to catch up later. What's the problem?"

"It isn't so much of a problem as it is… a situation." Lester raised a hand to the two remaining people after the departure of the black-robed mage. It was easy to identify who the wyvern belonged to, as the red-haired man's traditional wyvern lord armor matched the same green and white color scheme as his beast. He also had plenty of axes, his arsenal composed of a very intricate superior axe and a set of red and white hand axes.

The woman beside him shared a similar shade of hair color, though her's was a brighter shade of red and pulled into a ponytail instead of the loose, shoulder-length hair of her companion. Her deep-mahogany traveling tunic and gray cloth pants were worn from use, and her sturdy steel broadsword, fitted with red gems in the center of the hilt and pommel, had several scars that revealed its heavy use in combat. That, along with a serious, yet determined look in her pale blue eyes revealed that she had seen an entire lifetime's worth of travel and combat.

As Colin looked upon the two new arrivals, he had almost forgotten that Lester was even there. He silently cursed himself for being so unfocused as of late. But with all the distractions and the heavy weight placed on his mind, he couldn't help it.

"Colin, Esthara," Lester began, his hand still raised in acknowledgement of the red-haired companions, "These two are Achaeus and Zoe. They are mercenaries who provide aid all over Western Regna Ferox."

Achaeus, the wyvern rider, nodded his head deeply while Zoe gave the group a polite wave.

"Pleased to meet you two," Achaeus stated simply. His companion stepped forward and continued where he had left off.

"What brings all of you to Stormguard, anyway?" Zoe asked, "The city's in pretty bad shape and Lester here has been doing nothing but stalling."

Esthara giggled, turning to Lester and silently asking him if what the mahogany-garbed swordfighter said was true. The embarrassed look the paladin offered in response proved more than sufficient.

With introductions and the silent exchange out of the way, Esthara deemed it the proper time to take charge of the conversation.

"Lester and his allies came on a relief mission. I'm more of a stowaway, at this point. Is it fair if I ask you the same question?"

Zoe nodded.

"My fiancé wanted to give the damage a look. He's also very worried about an old friend who lived in town, though his expression would never give that away. Would any of you happen to know a Marius, by chance?"

Colin thought back to all the names of the people who had lived in Stormguard. 'Marius' was familiar, but it was one that he hadn't heard or used in a very long time. After a moment, though, realization struck him.

"Marius?" he repeated, "You mean the spell-slinging, sword-swinging lunatic who took on ten dark mages by himself and lived?"

His quip rose another fit of giggles from Esthara, and Zoe found herself laughing as well. Achaeus, however, returned with a stern, deadly serious stare and a silent nod.

The disparity between the two women and Achaeus was enough to even drive Colin to laughter. After composing himself, he continued, "I wouldn't worry too much about him. He was picked up by a band of mercenaries a few years back. I haven't seen him since, though."

Though it was subtle, Achaeus seemed to relax. His shoulders loosened, and the half-determined, half-worried look about him melted away. And he opened himself up to more conversation, as well.

"I'm relieved," the wyvern rider said, "It is difficult to make friends in this world. I wouldn't want to lose the few I have."

Zoe took a step towards her fiancé, wrapping both of her arms around one of his.

"C'mon," she pouted, "You still have me!"

"You're different," Achaeus returned, the beginnings of a smile forming on his face, "I'm stuck with you. Others can come and go as he pleases."

"I could have said no when you proposed."

"Maybe you didn't want to say no."

"You're insufferable, you know that?"

Zoe's words proved to be opposite of her actions, as she squeezed the wyvern rider's green-armored arm even tighter.

"Anyway," the swordfighter continued, returning her attention to Colin, Esthara, and Lester. Her arm, however, still remained tightly wrapped around her fiancé's arm. "I suppose that's about it. No Marius. What a shame."

Despite how her words hinted at the end of the conversation, Colin felt that something in Zoe's eye revealed that she wasn't quite ready to end their encounter.

"What do you plan to do next?" the Feroxian asked. Zoe's wistful expression immediately lightened as Colin spoke, and he knew that he had hit the right mark.

"Well," the swordfighter began, "_I_ wanted to go to the Arena and help with the war effort. We're mercenaries, after all. Fighting is our job. But Achaeus here is worried I'll get hurt. It's like he doesn't believe me when I say I'm invincible."

Colin tried to say something in response, but he felt his voice stop dead in its tracks. The Feroxian couldn't quite decide whether Zoe was delusional or just optimistic. Her personality pointed to the latter, but the way she spoke still gave Colin pause regardless.

After gathering his voice, Colin managed to spit out a stuttered, "Y-you're… invincible?"

"Of course I am!" Zoe stated defensively, "I haven't died yet, therefore I must be invincible. It makes sense."

Colin turned to Achaeus, trying to gauge whether or not the man would be able to help him. Fortunately for him, Achaeus' expression seemed to reveal that he was at least slightly concerned for his fiancée.

"Zoe, my love," the fair-skinned wyvern rider urged, "You couldn't possibly still believe that. Not after—"

"I can believe whatever I want!" Zoe interrupted, her voice still retaliatory, "We need to keep fighting. All of us need to fight, now more than ever."

Colin was inclined to agree with the agitated swordfighter, but the attitude she was taking about it put him on edge. Lester, too, appeared to be on edge, and he took the opportunity to join the conversation.

"You don't have to fight," the paladin began "You and Achaeus seem very happy together. The battlefield isn't the place for lovers."

Zoe grew quiet as Lester spoke. Her defensive, irritated expression melted away, replacing itself with one that spoke more of melancholy and regret.

"No," the red-haired woman murmured, "I have to keep fighting for my late father. He was my hero. And wherever my younger sister is, she would be delighted to know that I haven't lost myself yet. Fighting is all I know how to do, so it is all I can do."

"Zoe," Achaeus broke in, putting a hand on his lover's shoulder, "Isn't it too early to be—"

"No. They need to know because I've already decided what our next step is going to be."

Achaeus sighed softly and closed his eyes. He was quiet for a moment before he gave a small, almost unnoticeable nod.

"I understand."

Zoe turned to Esthara, the familiar, determined look in her eye returning to her.

"You're here to provide relief to Ferox in the name of Ylisstol? Stormguard isn't going to magically spring back up again anytime soon, so your best option would be to travel to Arena Ferox if you're still interested in helping out. If the Arena is your next destination, Achaeus and I would be happy to help you."

As soon as the words had escaped Zoe's mouth, Esthara did the exact opposite of what Colin expected her to: she smiled. Considering how timid she was and how often she stated she was disappointed in her own actions, it seemed slightly out of place. It didn't appear to be one of happiness or relief, rather one of excitement for a plan coming together perfectly. Colin had seen it before on someone he held dear…

"We were actually planning on going there next," Esthara said, "I knew that Colin would want to pursue the Easterners that destroyed Stormguard, so I've been devising battle plans for the past few days."

"Y-you knew?" the Feroxian sputtered, "I didn't think I had a chance to tell anyone yet."

"Of course I knew. You had it written all over your face."

"I did?"

Esthara simply smiled that odd, strategically successful smile once again, as she interlaced her fingers and held her hands at her chest.

"We can finish our conversation later. Why don't you find Samuel while I square things away with these two? Lester can come with you."

"Are you sure you're okay with that?"

"Believe me, I'll be done before you know it. Once the two of you are through, meet with me again in my tent. Samuel knows where it is. When you're ready, we'll have plenty to discuss. All of us."

* * *

Desmond's aching eyes cracked open at the sound of rustling in the corner of his tent. He leaned his head back into the ground, closing his eyes in an attempt to dull the pain. Unfortunately, he accomplished little more than making himself even more nauseous than he already was.

The taguel knew exactly who was rummaging through the corner of the tent without even looking. Lester was technically the one assigned to be his roommate, but between keeping the camp stocked and helping Esthara, the stalwart man only came in to sleep. He didn't interact with Brooks as much, and Esthara still was on his nerves, which left only one other person.

Samuel.

It wasn't the first time he had come around, either. Apparently, Samuel had designated him "problematic"—in the priest's own words, too—after the incident with the mead and the ditch two nights ago. So Samuel had kindly decided—his own words, again—to assist him in alleviating his morning hangovers.

Or was it afternoon? Desmond couldn't tell. The brightness of the morning and afternoon sun hurt his eyes equally.

"Here. I'm putting this on your head."

Yup. Definitely Samuel.

Desmond felt an ice cold cloth lower onto his head, instantly abating a portion of his headache. Samuel's hands moved away before he felt a leathery bundle being placed against the side of his bare chest. If it was what it was yesterday, it was a canteen filled with a mixture of water and pine syrup: the Feroxian's go-to hangover cure.

After which, Desmond heard Samuel's body slowly rise from his side and his footsteps retreat to the tent's entrance. But Desmond never heard the sound of the priest opening the tent flap and walking out into the snow. Rather, his feet remained firmly planted right in front of the exit.

"You really shouldn't do this to yourself, Desmond," Samuel said in a soft, yet not distinctly kind voice, "Getting drunk and waking up like this is not productive in the slightest."

"What's it to you if I get drunk?" he retorted, "You don't have to do any of this for me."

Desmond could feel the tension rise in the air, and his ears picked up the soft, nearly unnoticeable sound of Samuel's fists clenching.

"It's not about any of that. You know as well as I do that all of us are in way over our heads. Don't you remember what Esthara is planning? Or were you too—"

"I don't give a damn what that girl says," Desmond interrupted, slowly opening his eyes propping himself up in a sitting position. The cloth fell from his head, landing in his lap. Apparently the snow on top of it was what made it cool, since the snow had fallen from the cloth and into his lap and onto his bedroll.

"Esthara can go ahead and plan whatever the hell she wants. I don't really care."

"Desmond, we're talking about the lives of people we don't even know!" Samuel turned to face him, anger written all over his face. "Colin especially."

"Colin's awake?"

"Of _course_ Colin's awake. He's been conscious for over three hours now. Unlike yourself."

Desmond felt a primal growl rise up from his throat, and his teeth bared themselves almost naturally.

"Back off," the taguel warned, "You don't know what you're getting yourself into."

"I'm sure that whatever it is, it's a hell of a lot less dangerous than going into battle half-conscious and disoriented. Don't you understand that I'm trying to protect you?"

"No one said you had to protect me."

"Dammit Desmond, protecting you is my _job_! I'm the one with the staff and you're the one with the axe! Who do you think is going to get hurt more?"

Samuel gave a deep sigh before nearly throwing himself into a collapsable chair set up in the far corner closest to the tent flap. He buried his red-bearded head in his hands, clutching his forehead tightly.

"I don't want anyone to die," he murmured, "Not you, not Esthara, not anyone. I want all of us to get to Arena Ferox safely. And we're not going to be able to do that if you're putting yourself at risk."

Samuel slowly rose his head to meet Desmond's gaze. His anger had all but vanished, replaced with what could only be described as exhaustion.

"Just please take care of yourself. That is all I ask."

Desmond was quiet for a moment as he sat studying Samuel's tired eyes. Before long, the taguel laid back down and turned himself over to face the wall opposite the priest. It certainly wasn't the right time for him to be making decisions or giving half-hearted apologies, especially with his head still aching.

Samuel sighed once again, this one more a sigh of sadness and forfeit than once of annoyance. Desmond heard the red-haired priest rise from his chair, open the tent flap, and step outside without another word.

Not a moment later, soft, almost unintelligible words floated on the breeze to Desmond's ears. Samuel hadn't probably intended for him to hear what he had said, but the taguel listened to them as if they were intended for his ears regardless.

"Clean yourself up, Desmond."

* * *

The cold, brisk wind that had been plaguing the midwinter Feroxian lowlands only managed to worsen as the sun moved through the sky. Even on top of the hill overlooking the Ylissean Vanguard camp, the wind threatened to freeze anyone unlucky enough to be exposed to its frigid bite.

Lester, clad in his reinforced suit of gilded armor, scoffed as the chill tried to bore its way through his metal hull. Colin, who was standing to his left, appeared to not be bothered by the chill either, despite his sleeves being near-completely bare and exposed to the elements.

Ever since Lester first reunited with Colin, something seemed off about him. The paladin understood that he would be torn by his home's destruction at the hands of the East, and rightfully so, but something else seemed to grip at the Feroxian's emotions that Lester couldn't quite put his finger on.

But Colin was Lester's friend. No matter how many years had separated them, friendship was something that shouldn't be scorned by the passage of time.

"Colin," the gilded paladin began, capturing the Feroxian's attention, "Before I accompany you to meet with Samuel, there is something that I must ask you."

"Hmm?" Colin replied in a manner that appeared to be something akin to disinterest on the surface. But Lester knew better. The face that the Feroxian displayed was different than that of the words he spoke. His eyes, especially, sung a far different song than what his mouth had to say. It was odd, even for someone who had quite clearly been traumatized.

They were supposed to be friends. This wasn't supposed to be happening. Why couldn't Colin be pleased to see him again? Lester had to get to the bottom of whatever was driving a rift between them.

"You seem…" Lester paused, choosing his next words carefully, "Tense. Perhaps detached? I know you just lost your home, but…"

That had taken Colin by surprise. His clouded, unreadable expression a more recognizable expression of confusion. Lester wasn't quite sure what Colin had been expecting to hear, but it certainly wasn't what he had just said.

It took a moment for the Feroxian to respond. He had obviously taken the time to make sure he would say the correct words.

"It's… a lot of things, actually. Do you remember the last time we met?"

"Of course. The weeks that followed were quite… _memorable_, for me. I remember the chain of events perfectly."

"Then you remember the fountain in the center of Stormguard, right?"

Lester closed his eyes, imagining the scene. He remembered the vibrant blue sky of the pleasant summer's day, the bustle and din of the merchants and their customers, and the faint trickling of water from the fountain. A younger, twelve-year-old Colin stood with an older man and woman, while Lester—fourteen—had Lord and Lady Blackwood at his back. They parted without so much as four words.

"_I'll see you, Colin," _he had said, before obediently following the Blackwoods to their chariot.

If Colin wanted to point out how insensitive Lester was that day, he couldn't possibly blame him. Colin would be justified in believing that. Lester had meant to keep in contact with Colin, but what had happened after that… well, it prevented him from doing much of anything.

What came out of the Feroxian's mouth, however, was nothing like Lester had imagined him saying.

"I saw that fountain destroyed today. It's just… I'm afraid of change, Lester. People, places, anything. You're so different from the day we parted. Look at you! You're stronger, braver… Hell, you're even taller than I am now. It's scary to think how much changes with time."

"I'm inclined to agree with you, Colin," Lester murmured, "Have you wondered why I'm not stuck to the heels of the Blackwood family anymore?"

"Between waking up after a seven day coma and seeing my city in ruins, I haven't done much of any thinking. But I can't imagine it being any good."

"You'd be right about that. It's…" Lester took a deep breath, preparing himself for what he was about to say. He had tried and failed to tell Desmond and the others a few night's before, but he felt like Colin would understand his situation the best.

He continued, "It's because I failed to do my duty as a knight. They raised me from orphanhood, and I swore to protect them. But that day, just weeks after you and I parted, they were murdered."

"Lester," Colin said, his expression both taken aback and sympathetic, "I… I had no idea…"

"Neither does anyone else in this camp. I tried to explain it to them earlier, but I soon realized they would only see me as weak and shameful. This vanguard—this Ylissean Vanguard—is my way to repay my debt to the Ylissean households I dishonored and the family I let die.

"Every night, the people I failed to protect haunt me in my sleep. That's the reason I have changed so much, Colin. I needed to become stronger and I needed to become more resilient if I'm to ever put these spirits to rest. And perhaps I might get revenge on the man responsible for all this."

"You know who did it?"

"I crossed blades with him," Lester chuckled dryly, "The very fourth-in-command in the Eastern war machine, just under Lambert and Ilias: Etzel."

"Etzel…" Colin muttered, as if trying to place where he remembered the name from, "I haven't met him, but I have heard of him. He's cruel beyond words."

"That he is. But if you take one thing away from this conversation of ours, it's that terrible things will inevitably befall every one of us. But if we refuse to move on, or stay too connected to the past, we would become stuck in time. We must grow and adapt with the flow of time if we are to ever overcome the things that make us look weak."

"But how can I grow past this?" Colin countered, his voice growing more distressed, "Everything I've ever known is—"

"I can't decide that for you. That is a path you must forge on your own. But I will be there with you every step of the way. As a friend."

Lester held out his gloved hand to Colin, who looked upon it hesitantly.

"We may not be able to solve each other's problems," the Ylissean paladin stated, "But we can work at them together. What do you say?"

The Feroxian still gazed at Lester's outstretched hand, unsure what to make of it. Lester knew exactly how difficult it was for one to come to terms with a life-shattering event. But with all his experience with atoning for his failure to protect the Blackwood family, he knew that this would be the best way to go about it.

After shutting his eyes and taking a deep breath, Colin clasped his hand against Lester's, shaking it once firmly.

In a voice far more confident than it had been earlier Colin said, "We'll do it as friends. Let's take down those damn Easterners, one soldier at a time. Together."

* * *

**Caesar's Journal**

Forewarning

_If you are reading this journal, I am most likely dead. My name is King Caesar, the current king of Plegia, and I have seen things I do not wish to remember. After witnessing the end of Grima, I have found myself intrigued with the potential of the Outrealm Gate. Several visits to several realities have yielded magical knowledge far beyond what those of us on this plane have been able to master. Since my visits to the Gate, I have been plagued with terrible, terrible visions… I have seen the future. I have seen the past. I have seen the fates of infinite worlds. The end is nigh, and there is little you or I can do to stop it…_

–_Ouhjqjd–_

– – –

Page One

_J qsbz gps zpv, sfbefs pg uijt kpvsobm. Csbwf uif mboet tdbssfe cz uif esbhpo't gmbnft._

– – –

Page Two

_Ecp aqw hggn kv?_

_Ecp aqw ugg kv?_

_Ecp aqw dtgcvjg kv?_

_Kv eqogu._

– – –

Page Three ***New***

_Qhyhu wuxvw d pdvnhg pdq._

– – –

The contents of the other twelve pages are hidden behind an unintelligible assortment of letters. You can't read any further without your head hurting…

Perhaps you should return to it later after giving it some time.

* * *

**Roster**

**No.001 Nila**

A resident of Plegia and descendent of one of the famous time travelers of Ylissean past, Morgan. Although weakly, he carries the same blood of Grima used to revive the fell dragon generations ago. He was a tactician for the Plegian Mercenaries in the past, who eventually dissolved under his leadership.

The most likely fall asleep while reading.

Born on December 20th, age 24.

Class: Tactician (**Sword**|**Anima**, **Dark** from Shadowgift)

**No.002 Matthew**

The leader of a group of fighters known as the Justice Brigade, who prefers the name Matt. He brought the group together after he and Hunter fled a devastated city in Western Ferox, one of the first Western settlements destroyed by the marauding nation. His confident personality is what the Justice Brigade's foundation stands upon, yet he harbors doubts of his own sometimes.

The one who slouches the most.

Born on January 2nd, age 21.

Class: Wyvern Lord (**Axe**|Lance)

**No.003 Hunter**

A Feroxian duelist with a deadly mastery of swordplay. He has lived in not one, but two villages that have been razed by magic-wielding bandits or conquesting Easterners. The loss of his sister invoked a keen sense of justice within him and a fear of magic and fire.

The least fond of parlor tricks.

Born on January 25th, age 22.

Class: Swordmaster (**Sword**)

**No.004 Chastity**

An Ylissean Falcon Knight—who prefers to go by Chast—with pale white skin and red eyes. Her albinism runs in the family, being shared with her father. She had high hopes of joining the Ylissean cavalry, yet was advised to pursue a separate line of work by her father. She instead took up work as a mercenary, and eventually met Matt after he saved her life.

The one with the scariest glare.

Born on October 29th, age 17.

Class: Falcon Knight (**Lance**|**Staff**)

**No.005 Marius**

A peculiar fighter hailing from Stormguard. Initially striving to be a scholar, Marius studied magic diligently throughout his childhood. However, he shifted priorities when bands of rogue dark mages attacked the settlement. With his interesting combination of swords, Anima, and throwing axes, he joined the enthusiastic Justice Brigade to put his skills to the test.

The one with the worst sense of humor.

Born on April 1st, age 20.

Class: Dread Fighter (**Sword**|**Axe**|**Anima**)

**No.006 Valkus**

A Valmese quartermaster who tolerates nonsense of no kind. After a false claim of fraudulence, Valkus chartered a ship to the Ylissean continent. She joined the Justice Brigade after falling to them in a battle to mete out justice for herself and others. How this beauty's personality meshes with the jovial brigade is a mystery.

The most likely to enjoy taking inventory.

Born on March 25th, age 28.

Class: General (**Lance**|Axe)

***New* No.007 Colin**

A resident of Stormguard and Western Regna Ferox. He was brought up as a fighter from a young age, and the majority of his time outside of his education was preparing for the inevitable Eastern invasion. He was given his family's axe, Hauteclere, because of his technically older twin Muiris' disability.

Can hold his alcohol the best.

Born on January 2, age 18.

Class: Lord (**Axe**)

**No.008 Lester**

A seasoned veteran and guardian of Ylissean royalty. Lester began his training for knighthood at the young age of seven. He failed to protect the lord he was sworn to from a powerful East Feroxian warlord. He formed the Ylissean Vanguard in an attempt right the mistakes that he brought upon the halidom.

The longest bather.

Born on May 15th, age 20.

Class: Paladin (**Sword**|**Lance**)

**No.009 Desmond**

One of the rare taguel who bounced back from the brink of extinction. Desmond is one of the few taguel who have refused to their cultural roots of warren life. He trained under a man who fought against the Gray Claw, a taguel purist society that threatened his home. He refuses to use his beaststone.

The one with the biggest rock collection.

Born on August 8th, age 19.

Class: Taguel Fighter (**Axe**|Beaststone)

**No.010 Samuel**

An Ylissean priest of minor nobility. His rigorous education led him to priesthood, where he trained in the Holy Church of Naga to heal his allies. After being denied entry to the Ylissean military, he was recruited by Lester to heal for the Ylissean Vanguard.

The best at insulting others.

Born on July 14th, age 21.

Class: Scholar (**Staff**|**Anima**)

**No.011 Brooks**

A mage of Ylissean background that has traveled the world across. With his traveling mage caravan, he saw the shores of Valm, the peaks of both Feroxes, the sands of Plegia, and the rolling hills of Ylisse. Longing to be greater than an entertainer, he left his caravan to create his own adventures.

The one with dirt on absolutely everyone.

Born on March 10th, age 25.

Class: Mage (**Anima**)

**No.012 Esthara**

An Ylissean tactician in training. She wields the legendary weapon Mercurius, one of the three regalia of old, given to her as a gift by her professor. Studying under the legendary tactician and professor Kairos, she aims to one day match the intellectual might of the most famous tacticians in history.

The lightest sleeper.

Born on November 19, age 19.

Class: Strategist (**Sword**)

**No.013 Christopher**

A masked prodigy dark mage who shortens his name to Chris. His skill comes from necessity, having lived his most of his life around bandits and thieves. He trained under a Plegian outlaw sorcerer, partaking in both assassinations and thefts. After being conned into murdering his parents, he took up his father's mask and fled to Abnorun, a Plegian border town. He shares a proficiency in shadow with Nila.

The giddiest laugher.

Born on October 4th, age 16.

Class: Dark Mage (**Dark**|**Anima**, **Dark** enhanced from Shadowgift)

**No.014 Grace**

A nimble and powerful Ylissean myrmidon. Her father and older sister served as fighters for the Plegian Mercenaries years ago, a fateful mission taking her father's life and causing her sister to vanish. At the age of only fifteen, she picked up the pieces of her shattered life and became a wanderer with her mother. Finding herself a mercenary after her mother's recent death, she will invoke any means necessary to stay on her feet.

The most sentimental.

Born on September 19, age 19.

Class: Myrmidon (**Sword**)

**No.015 Iris**

The royal hierophant of the Plegian Court. She and the Autumn Queen Meliora have been great friends for many years, alongside the parents of both Nila and Grace. Désirée, Nila's mother, worked alongside Iris to put Meliora in power twenty years ago. The six friends have shared many an adventure, but Iris is definitely hiding something…

The one with her eyes on the horizon.

Born on February 15, age 43.

Class: Hierophant (**Dark**|**Anima**|**Staff**|**Rapier**)

**No.016 Bell**

A Valmese fighter whose travels have landed him in Abnorun. Previously an orphan, he found himself running with the worst types of crowds. He traveled to Ylisse to escape his past, but much of his experiences are unknown. Even his real name is shrouded in mystery.

The most fiercely protective.

Born on September 30th, age 28.

Class: Fighter (**Axe**)

**No.017 Ulysses**

The proclaimed 'Scourge of Abnorun.' Unsatisfied with the poor family he was forced to grow up with, the stealthy man turned to robbing Abnorun's wealthiest for years. He has conned, cheated, and stolen his way to the top of the Abnorun food chain, and is feared for good reason. Now an outcast, he hopes to turn over a new leaf in the eyes of the Justice Brigade, especially Chast.

The most likely to cry when worked up.

Born on February 13th, age 27.

Class: Thief (**Dagger**|**Bow**)

**No.018 Jae**

A half-manakete hailing from Plegia, as well as being the protector entity of Abnorun. Compared to most manaketes making their way in the world, Jae is remarkably young. His brother and two sisters often worry about him, but this soft-spoken half-manakete is more than capable of taking care of himself.

The most absentminded.

Born on June 9th, age 163.

Class: Manakete (**Dragonstone**)

**No.019 Katrina**

A Ylissean archer, and identical twin sibling of the Grand Ranger Kayla. She has always resented the path Kayla chose to take with the Sons of Naga, and has been pursuing her estranged sister in hopes of ending her path of torment. Her personality much more calm than her sister's, but she shares a slight abrasiveness with her.

The most resentful.

Born on July 20th, age 21.

Class: Ranger (**Bow**|**Greatsword**)

***New* No.020 Zoe**

A Ylissean mercenary and Grace's estranged sister. After her father's death during his service with the Plegian Mercenaries, she fled from home in order to quell the anger and depression of losing her hero. Her travels eventually landed her a position as a bounty hunter in Western Ferox before she met Achaeus.

The most pain-resistant.

Born on May 24th, age 21.

Class: Myrmidon (**Sword**)

***New* No.021 Achaeus**

An axe-fighter who fights atop his wyvern, Asaara. He was a Valmese wyvern-handler in his past, but was exiled from the country. He took up work in Plegia before being driven off by the invading Sons of Naga. Western Ferox eventually became the place he would find solace, and where he would meet his beloved, Zoe.

The most diligent caretaker.

Born on November 27th, age 24.

Class: Wyvern Rider (**Axe**)


End file.
